The Mishima Retirement Home
by Infundibular
Summary: Fifty years after the fifth Tekken Tournament, many of the competitors have taken up residence at a luxury retirement resort. Who will uncover the devious machinations of a man apparently able to cheat death itself…? Tea and crumpets, anyone?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Characters featured in the Tekken series are owned by Namco (obviously). Rated T due to some language and violence, relatively tame otherwise.

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**Chapter 1**

It was a fine autumn morning at the Mishima Retirement Estate. The tall birch trees surrounding the enclosure stood naked, shorn of their leaves, while the maple trees shrouded themselves in an impressive crimson blaze. Dappled sunlight caressed the crisp leaves that settled upon the promenade, a light breeze tussling them playfully. Birds went about their business and their song pervaded the trees. The gentle calm ended abruptly with the wild protestations of a wheelchair bound figure pushed along by a nurse.

"You'll pay for this! I told you and all the other incompetents here, never to disturb me when I'm in the middle of my plans!"

Scowling, the elderly man thrust his head round obstinately to face forward, his naturally dark skin now a dangerous shade of puce. His features were almost obscured by a vast network of lines that gave the appearance of a railway map etched onto his face, though this could hardly compete with the impossibly creased and food spattered, purple, satin suit he insisted on wearing.

Nurse Saunders urged the chair forward over a bump in the path and took a deep breath. "Kazuya…"

"That's Mishima-san! Worm!" exclaimed Kazuya, his face imploding into a deeper scowl while his jet black hair piece slid to an inappropriate angle.

"… Mishima-san, we didn't take this decision lightly, we know how busy you are. It's just that there's something we really feel you should see," she said evenly.

"What in OAP hell is it then!?"

"Mishima-san, I assure that it will all become clear once we reach the Heihachi Lounge."

"That name…don't say that name!" screeched Kazuya, beginning to shake violently. "Do you realise that every moment wasted on this pointless endeavour could have been better spent plotting the demise of that piece of cretinous filth!"

"Mishima-san! Please don't besmirch the name of our glorious father, were it not for him, this illustrious retirement home wouldn't even exist," she said sternly with a strange mixture rapture and melancholy. "And please calm yourself, that kind of behaviour will only exacerbate your heart condition."

Kazuya ground his teeth and set his jaw firmly, a flicker of red, like glowing embers flared in his left eye.

The two stopped once they reached the entrance of a squat building nestled amongst the trees of the enclosure.

"Everyone has been gathered here, Mishima-san. There's some important news that concerns us all. We just want all of you at the big screen, where we can supervise in case of possible…distress."

"What are you talking about?" asked Kazuya with palpable irritation.

Not stopping to explain, Nurse Saunders pushed the chair through the automatic sliding doors into the Heihachi Lounge.

"FURREEEEEECE!" Red droplets spattered across Kazuya's suit jacket.

The nurse took on an expression of dismay and resignation. "Put the sauce bottle down, Mr Wulong" she said with the calm professionalism of a police officer. Apparently noticing her presence for first time, Lei Wulong turned the lethal assault weapon in her direction, causing a dollop of tomato sauce to hit Kazuya squarely in the forehead. Kazuya saw red, and it _wasn't_ ketchup.

Lei had worked as a detective for Hong Kong's police force well beyond retirement age, bringing his indispensable knowledge and experience to the job. He had continued to have great success in apprehending criminals, the cyborg, Bryan Fury amongst them. He worked tirelessly and put his career before everything else, even at the expense of personal relationships. But inevitably his age caught up with him, for while he was physically fit, mentally he was in decline. The situation culminated in Lei accidentally shooting a fellow officer while on duty. His younger superiors, who still greatly respected him, shielded him against possible recriminations but 'strongly advised' him to retire. Lei begrudgingly accepted the offer but was never quite the same again.

"You rulease hostage now?"

"There is no hostage, Mr Wulong. The sauce bottle please."

"Where have you put hostage?"

"My bloody suit!"

Nurse Saunders stepped out in front of Kazuya's wheelchair while Lei levelled the bottle at her blonde head. "Give me the bottle, Mr Wulong."

His bloodshot gaze drifted around in confusion for a few seconds before he decided to surrender the weapon by carefully placing it on the floor, then proceeding to lie facedown with his hands on his head.

With a sigh, the nurse began to lift Lei off the carpet and accompany him to a seat. "We really need to stop having these hostage situations, Mr Wulong," she said despairingly. Then, sitting him comfortably, "Now no more trouble from you or it's Mr Sleepy Sedative… again."

From his position at the entrance, Kazuya's was afforded a full view of the lounge. He saw various familiar faces, creased and figures dilapidated, the chairs in which sat seeming to engulf them. "Oh God…" With a sigh, Kazuya pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with his initials in one corner and did the best he could to remove the sauce from his face and suit, muttering to himself the whole time. He scowled when he considered the cost of dry cleaning. Nurse Saunders was preoccupied with other residents, dispensing drinks from a tray and narrowly avoiding being pinched from behind by the fat, arthritic paw of former sumo wrestler, Ganryu. He would need to find a seat; a lengthy exercise in deciding who he would least like to sit next to and then proceeding to sit elsewhere.

Kazuya surveyed the large, semi-circular lounge, its curved wall comprised of floor to ceiling windows overlooking woodland, its flat wall dominated by what the staff of the home insisted on calling 'the big screen', as if to imbue it with the magic and excitement of a matinee. The reality being that nothing but strict Mishima Zaibatsu controlled programming was ever shown. After all, the retirement home was located on a previously uninhabited island in the Pacific, now owned by Heihachi. When he had announced his plans to build something as innocuous as a tourist resort and retirement home on the island twenty five years ago, Kazuya had become immediately suspicious and decided that it was worthy of investigation. He couldn't help but feel slightly perturbed however, by his failure to find anything shady (other than the pea soup served for lunch on Wednesdays) during the twelve years in which he had resided at the home. Nevertheless, Kazuya's resolve was undiminished, and he remained optimistic that he would unveil Heihachi's covert plans and find a way to profit from them. He scrutinized the more notable individuals, most seated in the robust armchairs clustered around the screen.

"C'mon, you aint telling me you're busy on Thursday?" asked Bruce Irvin, leaning towards Christie Gordo from his wheelchair. He apparently couldn't walk at all these days, due to difficulties with his knees.

"Oh, I can't," she said, lifting her hair above her head and letting it fall in a grey-streaked, chestnut avalanche around her. "I'm washing my hair."

"Damn girl, you always washing your hair. You can wash it faster if I help you."

Christie giggled, causing her pendulous bosom to tremble. Having put on quite a bit of weight, Christie was an enthusiastic exponent of the fuller figure. She had been married to her once mentor and lover, Eddy, and had led the sort of idyllic life few could ever hope to achieve. Under her persuasion Eddy forgot about avenging his father's death and focussed instead on launching himself into Brazilian politics. Christie meanwhile, enjoyed fame and fortune as a model and sometimes actress. A few years later, the couple were blessed with three healthy, bright children, and they became the very embodiment of family and domestic bliss. Even when scandalous photographs of Christie, allegedly entangled with a new love interest, threatened to ravage the family, they remained united. And when it was established that the photographs were mere fabrications circulated by a malicious and envious nobody, called Jennifer Lopez, they felt more unified than ever.

However, this euphoric existence simply wasn't meant to last, and it seemed the sun had finally set on the Gordo family when discontented grumblings about corruption in the Brazilian government began to spread throughout the country. As a prominent member of the government, Eddy was accused of complacency, greed and turning a blind eye to inefficiency and incompetence. Brazil was on the brink of civil chaos, and it was widely expected that the government would be overthrown in a coup. Eddy insisted that Christie flee the country with their children, which she did so with little resistance. Shortly afterwards, Eddy was assassinated. It was rumoured that he had been having an affair with one his aides for the last few years, though Christie fervently denied the claims.

"Well that only leaves Friday. You are available on Friday?" asked Bruce with slight pleading in his voice.

"I'm sorry Bruce, sweetie. The little ones are coming on Friday. I know you love kids," Bruce's jaw hardened, "but I don't think where you wanted to take me would be suitable for the grandkids."

"Shit girl. I got business to take of after Friday. How long you gonna keep stringin' me up like this?" He gave an exasperated sigh and straightened one of the cuffs of his expensive suit.

Bruce Irvin, former survival instructor and once bodyguard to Kazuya, had increasingly found himself hired by the corporate sector to improve team skills and communication between colleagues in the workplace. Seeing a lucrative opportunity, Bruce's teaching gradually altered to motivational and lifestyle classes for wealthy clients. Eventually, realising his own affluent status, Bruce decided to put something back into the deprived community of his childhood. To do this he sought King.

"Aww hell!" Bruce broke away from his conversation with Christie and spun round in his wheelchair.

A group of children, roughly kindergarten age, were gathering excitedly around King's chair, their teacher slowly raising a camera in preparation for a photo. Bruce wheeled himself at high speed and obscured the view of the camera as the flash went off. How he hated these periodic school trips to the home.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Bruce bawled at the petite lady with the camera.

"Sir, the children. Language please."

Bruce stared at her intensely, his jowls quivering, "What, are you doing?"

"The children wanted to have their photograph taken with King, that's all. They've had their little hearts set on it for months. Is now not a convenient time?"

"Do you know how busy this man is?" he said pointing at King, who sat perfectly still, his head drooping to one side, a faint gargling noise emanating from under the jaguar mask.

King was unfortunately suffering from the late stages of Alzheimer's disease, and Bruce, King's self appointed accountant and agent of the last few years, clung to him like a leech in hopes of making a little more cash. The two had met while King was still pouring his efforts into providing the necessary funds to run his orphanage. With the offer of financial support, Bruce requested King's assistance in the formation of a scheme to help disadvantaged youths. King agreed to this, and the result was a charity organization that Bruce christened, King's Trust, in his honour. The inception of the trust made King something of a celebrity, and it wasn't long before Bruce, smelling profits, started the production of merchandise themed on the Mexican wrestler. Most of the proceeds rarely went back to the Trust, but mysteriously found their way to Bruce's bank account instead.

"It is $20," Bruce explained, "per child, for a photograph with Mr King."

The teacher gasped in horror, "That's ludicrous!"

"Mr King is very busy," said Bruce as King slumped even further to one side. "If you are not prepared to pay the fee, then I would suggest you speak to a member of the trust to purchase a reasonably priced, signed or unsigned picture of Mr King. On behalf of King's Trust, thank you."

She hesitated for a moment before hastily sliding the cover over the lens of her camera with a loud snap. "Children, we're leaving," she commanded, marching out and giving Bruce a look of distain. The children straggled after her, whining in disappointment. In another seat adjacent to King, Craig Marduk sat and stared after them, shaking his head.

Defeated once again at King's hands during the fifth King of Iron Fist tournament, Craig finally came to the realisation that he was fighting for all the wrong reasons. King took Craig under his wing, and for a period they became an unbeatable tag duo in wrestling. However, it wasn't long before charges were brought against Craig in relation to an incident involving one of the female contestants during the last Tekken tournament. He was convicted shortly afterwards, spending three years in prison. During this time he studied literature, philosophy and psychology, and he emerged from prison a changed man. With his somewhat unique experience, the reformed Craig trained to become therapist, young offenders forming the majority of his patients. Years later, to protect an old friend from the avaricious tendencies of an unscrupulous businessman, Craig joined King at the retirement home to become his biographer.

Kazuya smirked to himself, he was thankful there weren't any vacant chairs near that particular group. The coarse American may have been a competent bodyguard but his conversation was abrasive at best. Kazuya winced at the thought of the Brazilian woman bombarding him with more news about exciting deals at the local Mishimarket, how the handbags were 'to die for'. And he certainly couldn't be bothered with the intellectual musings of the Australian, though he had to admit that conversation with the Mexican, or lack there of, was always good.

In a chair close by sat former Sumo wrestler, Ganryu. He paid meticulous attention to the nurses that moved about the room industriously, particularly the younger ones, Kazuya noted. Ganryu's mind had not been correctly focussed during the fifth tournament; as a result he was defeated by an opponent well below his calibre, a boxer, in one of the lower brackets. However, thanks to the help of a mysterious French girl, he was able to steal large quantities of scientific data from a Mishima Zaibatsu research facility. With it he hoped to win the respect and adoration of the sagely Julia Chang. But upon meeting her, all thoughts of romance were swiftly banished as it transpired that he had collected the wrong data entirely. Though it had been a terrible set back, Ganryu persisted with his courtship of Julia despite the fact it was endangering his position as a Rikishi. Unfortunately he was forced to give up on this pursuit after being served with a restraining order.

Depressed and unable to concentrate on his responsibilities at the Sumo stable, Ganryu was demoted a number of ranks. He had almost given up on love until a filmmaker friend of his suggested they hold auditions for a part in a fictitious film. Ganryu would be present while various women auditioned for the 'role', and if any of them interested him he could contact them. Thinking the idea ingenious, Ganryu heartily agreed to go along with it, and within hours he was looking upon the girl of his dreams, Asami. Sadly, the beautiful, introspective girl was incensed when she discovered that the role she had auditioned for didn't exist. It in fact turned out that she was more than a little mentally unbalanced. She bound Ganryu and subjected him to hours of torture, the injuries from which forced him to retire from Sumo Wrestling.

Ganryu was obviously heavily preoccupied with more important matters, Kazuya decided, and he himself was not in the mood to reminisce about the delectable Changs. He spotted a rather wretched looking figure wearing ragged and scuffed biking leathers that were far too big for his shrunken frame, his straggly, white hair thrust upwards in irregular plumes. It took all of Kazuya's restraint not to walk over and begin taunting the arrogant fool that had once insisted upon calling himself his rival. But he knew there was no need, the washed up alcoholic was doing an admirable job by himself.

"Not so tough now are we, my flat friend?" Paul seemed to bellow at the floor. Upon closer inspection, an onlooker would notice that his attention was in fact focussed upon a rather threadbare, brown bearskin rug adorning the floor, complete with gnarled head and glass eyes. Kuma's death was entirely due to old age, though Paul insisted it was the consequence of an epic battle on a mountainside. "What? You think I don't have the balls!" Paul shrieked at the rug, as if in answer to a challenge that no one else could hear. With this, he threw himself onto the floor and began to wrestle mercilessly with the rug.

Fate had continued its cruel entertainments with Paul Phoenix, tantalising him with victory after victory at successive King of Iron Fist tournaments, only to snatch it away inches from his grasp. The torturous failures made Paul angry and suspicious, and this suspicion developed into full blown paranoia, while his anger became focussed on the one thing that could explain his misfortune. Extraterrestrials! He began a campaign to fight back and extinguish the malign influence of these abominable creatures, but to Paul's despair the public's reaction was less hospitable than he had anticipated. He spent many years afterwards in seclusion, unable to trust a society too blind to see its own inevitable plight at the hands of these aliens with calamitous intent.

After some moments of intense combat, a few handfuls of brown fur cascading through the air, Paul seemed to emerge victorious. Placing a booted foot on the head of his utterly defeated adversary, he proudly announced, "Don't mess with the Phoenix unless you wanna be next!" A few heads turned, but most of the nurses and residents alike had seen this particular bout a number of times, so continued about their business. Kazuya suppressed a snigger; it was so tempting to walk over and get the American worked up. Instead he decided to let him savour his victory. After all, it was the only kind of victory he was going to get these days.

Next to a vacant chair sat another of Kazuya's once bodyguards, Anna Williams. Onlookers were wise not to be fooled by her appearance, for despite her penchant for skirts and high heels, she was vicious in the ring. These days however, she was preoccupied with other battles. For one, her ongoing divorce from Kazuya's adoptive brother and multimillionaire, Lee Chaolan. They had both entered a series of short lived and ill fated marriages with an array of different individuals while sating their predatory, sexual appetites. During those years, a courtship, like that of two entwined and highly venomous snakes, simmered between them, eventually culminating in their engagement and subsequent wedding.

The ceremony, which was cripplingly exorbitant and extravagant beyond all good tastes, attracted a lot of media attention, though not as much as the turbulent marriage that followed. The couple filed for a divorce after six months. They then spent the proceeding years, in court, gluttonously appropriating as much of each other's wealth as possible, Anna from Lee's lucrative sales of robots for 'leisure activities', and Lee from Anna's successful fashion chain. While it certainly couldn't be said that they were a showcase for the resilience and longevity of marriage, their divorce was now nearing its thirtieth anniversary, an auspicious occasion.

Noticing Kazuya's glance, Anna looked in his direction and waved her hand in a rather regal gesture of invitation. There was worse company to be had, Kazuya decided, provided he steered well clear of one particular topic. Anyway, Anna's monumental flirtations usually drove away any man unable to fill the rather large boots that she kindly laid out and expected them to fill. And her noxious attitude towards the same sex usually resulted in a one hundred metre blast radius of hostility. So at least Kazuya wouldn't be forced to mingle with too many of these simpletons. He lifted himself slowly out of his wheelchair and began tread over to her position.

"Kazuya, such a rare pleasure to see you," cooed Anna, all purring Irish vowels.

Her face maintained its indifferent expression of surprise, the painted eyebrows venturing a little too high on the taut skin of her forehead, an encounter with an all too eager beauty therapist and a syringe full of botulinum toxin no doubt being the cause. For even more fierce than Anna's legal encounters, was her war against the ageing process, where her face was the battlefield and the surgeon's scalpel her holy sword of justice, whose steel, no vile wrinkle could hope to stand against.

"Miss Williams," replied Kazuya with a nod, as he shuffled painfully on stiff legs. Anna, head tilted, regarded him with faded blue eyes as he collapsed into the chair.

"So, any idea what all this…" she gestured with a thin arm at the room filled with sitting figures, "is all about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, though the nurse seems to think we'll become quite 'distressed'. And I must say just looking around this room is having that exact effect."

"Oh for love of… If it's just another one of our fellow inmates popping their clogs then why hell don't they just say so?" exclaimed Anna, rolling her eyes. "Half the people here refuse to die themselves, so I should think they're experts at dealing with bereavement, the other half is so senile that when someone _does_ die they bring wedding gifts to the funeral. Perhaps they're about to replace the curtains in the dining hall again; that never fails to cause _me_ no small amount of distress. I swear, if they put up any more floral prints I'll get Jacobs to smear his greasy, brown faeces over them again, then they'll _have_ to take the hideous things down. Even if they don't it'll be an improvement either way; I'd _rather_ look at another one of Jacobs' tactile masterpieces than those flowery travesties."

"A bereavement would seem more likely."

"Oh, speaking of bereavements, you probably haven't heard. Beak… Bek…?" Anna pursed her lips in thought, an expression that one would usually expect to be accompanied by a furrowed brow. "Ah, yes. Baek Doo San!" she said triumphantly. "He died three days ago, permanently this time though. Natural causes apparently, not giant, green monster related. I'm sure you remember Baek?"

"Hmm, the Taekwondo master?" said Kazuya, folding his arms. "I was under the impression that he was dead all these years, I forgot how many of those old faces eerily resurfaced during the fifth tournament. Anyway, pretty pitiful pugilist I recollect. But I suppose if he's dead we're obliged to say facetious things like; 'what a terrible loss'."

"Oh, but it is!" exclaimed Anna. "He had a nice ass…" She rolled her eyes skyward, wistfully, "Well, twenty years ago anyway."

Anna's reverie was interrupted when a flustered Marshall Law was thrust into the lounge by strong hands through a door to the left of the screen. "Mr Law, I'm sorry to use force but I'm just doing my job. I was told that all able residents were to be gathered in the main lounge area, and that includes you, Mr Law."

Marshall turned on the flushed kitchen staff member, a demonic glare on his face. "And how many of the residents are in the middle of making a soufflé?" he demanded.

"Mr Law, there's really nothing I can do about it; they were quite specific." The young man held up his hands, looking rather defeated. "If you want to complain about it, I suggest you speak to the head of staff."

Marshall usually contented himself by assisting in the kitchens of the retirement home on a voluntary basis. It was a passion that had never faded, unlike his passion for martial arts. That had withered away long ago from years working as a hired goon for a loan shark. He had approached the loan shark to try and combat seemingly insurmountable debts. After receiving the agreed amount, Marshall was then saddled with the burden of repaying his new debts. He had assaulted too many of his customers to even contemplate going back to running a restaurant, so he decided to become a health inspector, thinking there might be a little more money to be had there anyway. Things didn't go well, and it wasn't long before Marshall found himself pursued by his lenders.

Two months passed while he was under constant threat, barely able to get one night's sleep, though he still managed rebuff his pursuers. Realising the futility of the situation, the loan shark's men approached Marshall with the offer of joining their ranks, apparently so impressed with the efficiency he had displayed at dealing with them. Despite his reservations about working with such people, Marshall jumped at the chance, realising it was the best way to pay off his debts. Though he didn't initially plan to work with the thugs any longer than was required, those thoughts quickly evaporated when it became apparent that his wife would not relinquish her tenacious grip on his healthily inflated wallet.

"Fine!" exclaimed Marshall petulantly. "But God damn it, if that soufflé falls…" his voice was barely above a whisper with a menacing edge to it, his long, silver moustache quivering with his rage, "then on your head be it." He furiously tore off his stained apron and threw it at the man in the doorway. The staff member flinched and withdrew without another word, a worried expression on his face. Anna flashed a mischievous grin at Marshall as he stalked past towards Paul.

"Have you seen my wife, Paul?" Paul looked up at his friend of many decades with the vaguest hint of recognition. Marshall sat himself down in a chair beside him, Paul eyeing him very suspiciously. "Where the hell is that woman?"

Nurse Saunders swept past, clipboard in hand and clutching a pen, apparently performing a headcount. "So, anyone else in the obituaries I should know about?" asked Kazuya, picking up where he and Anna had left off.

Anna pursed her lips again. "Hmm, no one of consequence. Of course, they're all dropping like flies these days," she said with a self-satisfied air, crossing a well preserved leg. She seemed about to say something else when her breath came short and she became very still, staring at the space in front of her as if some painful and repressed memory had just resurfaced and re-enacted itself there. "Well there's one person whose name I've been praying would turn up in the obituaries for years now." She turned slowly towards Kazuya, a cold and fierce light behind her glazed eyes. He swallowed nervously, hoping the conversation wasn't about to turn to a certain sibling of Anna's. He had enough problems with his own dysfunctional family without hearing about the rifts in hers.

Suddenly and without warning, Anna shot out a well manicured hand and grasped Kazuya's knee almost painfully. "Do you know what that bitch did?" she hissed with a maniacal glare. Not even giving him a chance to venture a guess, she proceeded to answer her own question. "Prada! Fucking Prada! She asked me if I would donate something for one her stupid bible bashing fundraisers. Now I'm not an unreasonable person, and I didn't want to refuse and make her look good, but I was on my way to the spar. So I made possibly the most stupid decision in my life and said she could go to my apartment and pick up any pair of shoes, as long as they weren't Prada."

Kazuya felt it was time to be going, but when he tried to lift himself out of the chair, Anna's hand remained firmly clamped to his knee. Certain he could feel the painted, red nails piercing his skin, he sat back down.

"So I get back from the spar, and I'm one pair of shoes down - one pair of _Prada_ shoes. I was almost out the door to go and immolate the bitch where she stood, but then I see her sitting there in my bloody kitchen. She said the fundraiser was a success and that the shoes auctioned for a high price. She wanted to 'thank' me apparently. I was furious; 'where the fuck are my fucking Prada stilettos bitch?' And she just sat there, all innocent, trying to look shocked; 'Oh no. Those were the Prada ones? I'm so sorry, I couldn't tell the difference.' Can you actually believe her? I mean as if she didn't _actually_ know? I'm going to have to replace my entire kitchen because of that incident."

With great difficulty Kazuya attempted a sympathetic face, hoping it might calm her down. He should have known Anna was due to have another one of these episodes.

Nurse Saunders came striding towards them again with her clipboard. She stopped in front of them. "And how are we today, Miss Williams?" Anna didn't respond, apparently still reeling from the memory of the despicable larceny of her shoes. "Anna?" nurse Saunders enquired, her smile replaced with a look of concern.

Anna looked up, her eyes no longer glazed. She loosened her grip on Kazuya's knee slightly as a sigh of relief escaped him. "Oh I'm fine thanks," she said blithely. "How can I help you?"

"Well, everyone seems to be here except Mr Law's wife and your sister. You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?" Had most of the muscles not been paralysed there would have been a very unpleasant expression on the Irishwoman's face at that moment.

Anna tensed up, causing Kazuya to gasp as she squeezed his knee brutally. "And just why exactly would I know the location of that bitch?"

The nurse flushed. "Oh, that was a little presumptuous of me. I guess you two still aren't getting along?"

Anna's laughter was shrill, verging on hysterical. "You could say that. I'll tell you what though; if I see her, I'll let you know. Then you'll be able to find her in the operating theatre at the hospital," Kazuya swore he could feel ligaments tearing, "having another hip replacement!"

Nurse Saunders attempted a smile but found only a grimace materialising before she turned to Kazuya, who wore an equally pained expression. She unexpectedly laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mishima-san, I just want you to know that after the announcement I'll be here if you need someone to talk to." With that, the nurse turned and walked off before he could even begin to fathom what she was talking about.

Not giving it another thought, Kazuya turned his attention to Anna, hoping he might persuade her to disengage her claws. "Do you think you could possibly…?"

"Oh, Kazuya I'm terribly…" she broke off mid-sentence, the absent look appearing once again in her eyes as quickly as it had dissipated. Anna thought she felt a shiver run through her very soul. "She's coming," she hissed, fully reapplying the pressure and sending rivulets of pain up Kazuya's tortured leg.

As if having waited precisely for this prophetic announcement, the retired assassin, Nina Williams, strolled in through the automatic doors that Kazuya had passed through a short time ago. Her head held high and her gaunt features arranged in an expression of superiority, she halted at the entrance. Within seconds of her icy gaze scanning the room, she spotted her sister, who returned a venomous glower that could have thwarted a basilisk.

"Shit!" hissed Anna, whipping her head away from the sight of her nemesis approaching, as if doing so could will her out of existence. "It's always the same with that bitch. Just can't leave things alone; always has to pour just a little more salt in the wound."

Kazuya decided it would be only prudent if he were somewhere else when Anna's sister arrived. After all, the Mishimas and Nina Williams got along like a gang of arsonists in a fireworks factory. She had at one point or another attempted to assassinate three generations of his family. In particular his mind drifted back to an incident in which he found himself being sniped at in the comfort of his own bath - something that didn't help to endear her to him any further. And to the Mishimas, Nina owed twenty two years worth of long term memory loss from which she was yet to fully recover, and an unwanted son created from her genetic material without her consent.

Anna was far too preoccupied with her own thoughts to even notice as Kazuya attempted to release his knee from her iron grip with his own arthritic fingers. He struggled with little success, becoming more desperate when he looked up to see Nina stepping ever closer. If she and Anna came into contact with one another before he could release her hold, he doubted he would ever walk again.

"Kazuya," the older sister greeted him coolly. Too late. She swept a few errant wisps of grey hair away from her eyes and glanced sideways, towards Anna, who had suddenly become intensely interested in the carpet. "Anna, surely you're not still upset with me over _that_. How many times can I apologise before you'll forgive me?" Kazuya clenched his jaw, feeling the pressure build. He swept his gaze towards Nina, and squinted as a ray of sunlight caught on the heavy, silver crucifix that adorned her neck.

That cross was a talisman that the Irishwoman was never to be seen without these days. After decades spent as an assassin, the great epiphany that awakened her latent Christian sensibilities came in the form of a priest that spoke with the same voice and beheld Nina with the same gaze as her long dead father. As she levelled the mussel of her gun with its silencer at his head, this man that was, but could not be her father, spoke. He told her it was time to let go of the malignant blade that spilled the blood of her victims. Time to heal the wounds of her neglected past, and that putting her faith in God's hands would help her do so. At the time, Nina was stunned; he _did_ look remarkably like her father, and even made an interesting point. But he was also a paedophile, and her contracted target, so she shot him. However, that was the last person, she swore, would ever die by her hand before devoting herself to God.

A peal of laughter tore through the air with a serrated edge. "Forgive you?" Anna blurted incredulously. "God might forgive you, but then he doesn't have enough sense to wear Prada does he? He just wears those hideous fucking sandals."

"Anna, it was a simple mistake. Why can't you accept that? It's not like they didn't go to a good cause."

"Oh no! Don't even _think_ about giving me this bloody 'good cause' and 'I am light' crap, you born again piece of trash. You could be doing all three of the holy trinity at the same time for all I care, it doesn't mean you can't read a label in a fucking shoe!"

Just at the point that Kazuya thought he might have to consider leg amputation, Nurse Saunders interrupted the exchange. "Nina Williams," she marked the sheet on her clipboard robotically. "Mrs Law can't make it… so that's everyone. You're a little late, Nina, but no harm done. How are you today?" she asked in a way that was more a pre-emptive strike against potential problems than polite conversation.

Nina turned to the nurse, effectively ignoring Anna, who growled and finally tore her hand away from Kazuya's likely crippled limb. "I'm feeling invigorated. It's yet another wonderful day for which we must be thankful to the Lord," said Nina, almost solemnly as she proceeded to automatically genuflect. Anna looked ready to vomit at that gesture. She'd never believed her sister's new found faith was anything more than a pious façade from the moment she had been baptised the second time.

"And I must thank you for your generous donation," Nina said calmly, laying a hand on one of Nurse Saunders' slender arms.

"Oh, I'm just happy to help. I'm so glad it all went well." The nurse's disposition was sunny but with an air of reticence about it. "Anyway, you'd better find a seat, Nina. We're ready to start, do excuse me." She headed off to the front of the room where the other nurses had already conglomerated.

Nina glanced towards Anna again. "We should talk later."

"Yeah, about how you're going to repay me for a pair of Prada shoes, a kitchen and a lifetime of grief," she spat, glaring. Nina simply sidled off to a seat nearby, while Anna looked about indecisively before getting up and storming after her.

Finally alone, Kazuya felt as though he had weathered a severe storm. He took a deep, energizing breath, and winced at the pain in his knee as he flexed it. He hated gatherings like these, considered them an exercise in tedium, and Nurse Saunders' behaviour was perplexing at best. _Make the damn announcement and I'll be on my way_.

"Excuse me, may I have your attention please," Nurse Saunders' crisp and sober voice swept across the lounge. The murmuring in the room began to cease and was replaced by expectant silence. "Thank you all for coming."

"Like we had a choice," grumbled Marshall.

"Terrible news reached our manager, Mr Kobayashi early this morning," she intoned gravely. "As per his request, you will have noticed that TV and internet services to your apartments have been temporarily suspended. Mr Kobayashi is currently attending business in relation to the matter at hand, so cannot be here to address you himself, for which I must apologise on his behalf." Another nurse slid what appeared to be a remote control into Nurse Saunders' hand. "Brace yourselves," she said before hitting a button on the control with a flick of her wrist.

The big screen suddenly illuminated with the image of half a man's torso, a news reader who was apparently mute, though within a few seconds an accompanying voice began to filter through the sound system. "… leaving a potentially volatile economic climate."

Kazuya quirked a thick brow as the torso was replaced by a reporter standing next to a familiar figure. "I'm joined by the former Executive Director of the United Nations Environment Programme and now the newly appointed High Commissioner for Human Rights at the UN, Julia Fox-Chang."

"Brad," greeted Julia, warmly.

"So what is the sentiment at the UN in light of recent events?"

Julia opened her mouth to reply, only to be drowned out by the clamour of an over enthused Ganryu. "JUULIAAA!" He dashed with terrifying speed towards the screen with the intention of smothering it. Several arms entwined his expansive chest however before he was given an opportunity to show his adoration.

"Get this man sedated," demanded one of nurses struggling to restrain Ganryu. "We'll have to keep him under for at least a week."

"The corporation's track record on human rights has been criticized as being well below international standards," stated the reporter. "How do think this situation will affect your job now?"

"I'm optimistic. I see this as an opportunity to extend the influence of the United Nations, which is desperately needed to combat these human rights abuses. Up until now we have been too heavily impeded to take definitive action."

_So what the hell is this 'terrible news' then? Human rights abuses are under threat? What?_ Kazuya attempted to read the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen to try and get a gist of what exactly he was supposed to be so concerned about. But alas, his eyes weren't what they used to be, and he'd been bustled out of his apartment too quickly to pick up his glasses.

"Thank you," said the reporter, with a polite nod towards Julia. "I'll be speaking to the high commissioner again in a few minutes. But for now, back to you Douglas."

Douglas, the news reading torso, appeared once again. "Thanks Brad. Breaking News; Leader of the Mishima Financial Empire, Heihachi Mishima, was pronounced dead this morning. A coroner's report indicates heart failure as…"

Bruce looked about in disbelief and asked no one in particular, "Heihachi Mishima… is dead?"

Nina genuflected and mouthed a wordless blessing, while Anna appeared to be surprised but most likely wasn't.

Why hadn't Kazuya seen this coming? It should have been obvious from every expression on Nurse Saunders' face, that woman who had some kind of bizarre and twisted adoration for his bigot of a father. And why hadn't she told him sooner?

Materialising a few steps from Kazuya's chair, Nurse Saunders suddenly approached, threw her arms around him and began to sob uncontrollably. "Mishima-san, I'm so sorry. Mr Kobayashi asked me to inform you this morning. But I just…I just…couldn't," was all she could stammer before she began to sob once again in that uncharacteristic, not to mention, uncouth fashion.

_So that was it._ Kazuya put an arm around the trembling nurse while smiling blissfully, not really caring if onlookers mistook his actions for sympathy or affection. For now his thoughts were preoccupied with the wonderful news he'd just received. He wouldn't be truly satisfied that the bastard was dead, until he was looking upon the stiff and festering corpse, having met with too many past disappointments to accept this so lightly. But at the moment, he would content himself with the possibility that it might be true. _Maybe he even left me something in the will?_ Kazuya snickered to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Characters featured in the Tekken series are owned by Namco (obviously). Rated T due to some language, violence and alcohol use.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for the reviews; it's always encouraging to have feed back. I hope readers will enjoy chapter two despite the fact it seems to wander about quite a lot. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 2**

The small convoy of minibuses had left the retirement home fairly early in the morning. On board, the residents who wished to attend Heihachi Mishima's funeral, accompanied by a small number of staff, were on their way to check-in at the island's only airport.

The bus in which Kazuya sat slowed to a stop in a convenient disabled space. Directly opposite was the large entrance that led inside the cavernous terminal. The doors of the minibus slid open, and those able to walk or hobble disembarked from the vehicle and began their slow progress towards the entrance. It was a rather pitiful sight; the straggly, waif like and dishevelled figures dressed in an assortment of charcoals, black and the occasional mauve, spilling onto the immaculate pavement like an oil slick.

_/How the mighty have fallen!/_ crooned a familiar voice between intermittent bursts of harsh laughter, silken and scathing. This was a voice that spoke within the confines of Kazuya's mind. He could feel it reverberating inside his skull, skittering like a stone across the ocean of his consciousness. It was a voice that only one other person would ever be privy to.

Kazuya, still wearing his faithful, purple suit (cleaned and ironed at Nurse Saunders' insistence) came to a halt just in front of the building and turned around to survey those walking behind him. Craig Marduk's hunched figure loomed silently like a gargoyle over the wheelchair he was pushing, in which sat a slumped King threatening to fall out at any given moment. Marshall Law struggled helplessly with the mobile phone clutched in his right hand, smashing its digits with his thumb and causing it to emit disapproving, high pitched beeps. With his other hand he held tightly onto the wrist of Paul Phoenix, who straggled after him like a scolded and bewildered toddler. Meanwhile Anna Williams, in her black, veiled hat and pencil skirt, teetered along on stalk thin legs atop four inch heels, nearly embedding her face in the ground when she unexpectedly walked over an uneven paving slab.

_/The finest warriors of their art, the crème de la crème, Kings of the Iron Fist,/_ the voice managed to splutter out mockingly before descending into further debauched laughter. _/Oh, how I love time. It fucks them _all_ over in the end!/ _To that, Kazuya felt his face crease into a familiar smirk which he was powerless to stop.

Nurse Saunders hopped down from a second minibus and began to fuss around her charges like a brooding mother hen. Reminding them for what was probably the tenth time, how they were going to negotiate the airport, rendezvous points and times, what to do if they got separated. With her usual finesse she conducted everything with military precision. But in contrast to her usual spotless, white uniform, she was shrouded in black, an event akin to witnessing a lunar eclipse

_/Oh, mortal coil,/ _the voice chimed jubilantly._ /You just don't know how entertaining it all is unless you're looking at it from here. What was it the Frenchman, Voltaire said? 'God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.' He was right you know. I found that one immensely entertaining. He went straight to hell of course. I mean he was too good for anywhere else. But then he _was_ French./_

_Would it be far beyond your presumably infinitesimal demonic faculties to cease this inane stream of telepathic diarrhoea? _Kazuya interjected.

_/Well it's nice to speak to you too, little one. You do realise though, that all verbal diarrhoea, telepathic or otherwise, is by its nature inane?/_

Kazuya sighed, rolling his eyes irritably. He couldn't deny that hearing the voice of the demon that was for the most part silent these days was somewhat soothing. But as far as he was concerned, their 'partnership' was defunct now. His ignorant and interfering son had defeated him and effectively siphoned off the greater portion of Kazuya's demonic shadow. Ever since, he was left with nothing but a scornful, disembodied voice that would occasionally cut through his thoughts like a caustic and withering blade. He was no longer able to harness the transcendental powers that the entity had once offered, and now the voice merely served as a reminder of what he had lost.

_What do you want? _he asked, eventually.

_/I wanted to see how you were coping. You're daddy's dead, after all./_ The demon paused, as if in thought. _/You're in denial aren't you? It's just all been too painful hasn't it? Oh, little one,/_ the voice almost cracked with theatrical concern, _/we'll get through this together, okay?/_

"Stop patronising me and get to the point", Kazuya hissed aloud through gritted teeth. Even after a veritable lifetime the demon still knew how to aggravate him with practiced ease.

"Mishima-san, are you okay?" Nurse Saunders was apparently standing in front of Kazuya, giving him the appraising look that she often favoured when observing individuals of questionable mental stability.

_/What? A demon can't show concern for its favourite, most precious mortal?/_ the entity said with its best vocalisation of a pout. _/Anyway, I can see you have company, we needn't talk now. On the plane, yes? I shall return, little one./_

Nurse Saunders expression was gradually transforming from one of appraisal to concern. "It's the voices again, isn't it Mishima-san?" she spoke softly, wrapping her arms around him. "I know this situation is painful, but we'll get through this together, okay?"

Kazuya nearly ground his false teeth into dust, a demonic cackle echoing through his skull.

---

Craig dutifully pushed King's chair into the slightly crowed confines of the spacious airport building, while Bruce Irvin zipped about like a mosquito, in his motorized wheelchair, trying to thwart any unauthorised photography or autograph requests by potential King enthusiasts. It was something of a welcome distraction. Bruce hated airports and he hated planes even more. If just one more plane crashed while he was onboard, he would resort taking ferries, he had decided.

After suitably scolding a middle aged woman brandishing a pen, Bruce looked around only to be faced with more problems. "Aww hell!" A group of tourists were arming themselves with cameras and training them dangerously in King's general direction.

"No goddamn pictures!" shouted Bruce, furiously. Then, seeing his words go unheeded turned his chair around to face parallel to a line of four camera wielding tourists. With a flick of the joystick on the arm of his chair, he sent it whirring and hurtling forward, crushing four pairs of sandal clad feet. "I _said_, no pictures!"

There were shouts of protest; an "Asshole," some indeterminate grumblings, and the clatter of a camera hitting the hard floor. But there was no sound of clicking shutters, leaving Bruce in a trancelike state of Zen. Though it ended abruptly in the next second, when there was a momentary flash of white light.

A few feet in front of King stood a small girl holding a camera phone with a gleeful expression etched across her face. Bruce felt a growl building at the back of his throat as his hand clawed over the joystick of his chair, ready to run the insolent, little shit down and smear her blood all over the spotless floor tiles of the airport.

King's Cubs member no. 41253, hit a few buttons on her pink camera phone, confirming that she wished to save the photograph of her idol that she had just taken. She beamed happily while she slid her phone back into her pocket, but when she looked up again, she saw an elderly, black man in a wheelchair, bearing down upon her at speed. His face was a malevolent mask of fury covered in innumerable moles, and his bared teeth glinted gold in the sunlight. She could only let loose a panic stricken shriek as she watched the distance between them dwindle till it seemed he would collide with her, full force.

She would pay. No one, especially an insolent, little girl with a tacky, pink phone would take unauthorised pictures of King and steal potential profits from under Bruce's nose. He was almost upon her, and the look on her face was a treat, only to be followed by an even better terrified shriek. _Yes,_ he thought to himself, _I am your worst nightm..._ The thought never quite reached its conclusion as Bruce felt himself collide with something solid.

Upon discovering that she had in fact _not_ been mashed to a bloody pulp by the paraplegic with the maniacal gleam in his eyes, Cub no. 41253 bolted as quickly as her shaking legs could carry her, towards the escalators, the least hospitable place for wheelchairs she could think of.

Bruce was aware that he was still seated in his chair, he felt like the air had been knocked right out of him and there was an immense pressure on his chest. But something else was also amiss that he couldn't quite put his finger on. And then it struck him. He had been rotated ninety degrees and was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, a large, booted foot planted firmly on his chest. The foot's owner stooped forward and glared at him.

"Marduk?" Bruce rasped, recognising the craggy features and bald pate of the giant. "…You crazy motherfucker! Get the fuck off me!" He squirmed weakly before Craig unhurriedly complied, proceeding to stand silently next the toppled wheelchair, arms crossed.

For the next few minutes, Bruce tried without avail to right his fallen position while Craig looked on indifferently. It was hopeless, he knew. But he was determined he was not going to ask that Aussie bastard for help.

Bruce came into the world with nothing. He lived on the streets, where every day was a scrape for survival, where it had been a good day if he could go to sleep without an empty stomach. But things were different now. He had money and he had power, paid for in sweat, blood and toil, and with those he should have had respect. Or at least he tried to remind himself of that every time he was being peered down upon derisively by a grizzly, Australian ex-con. The contempt Craig bore towards Bruce was almost tangible, and it infuriated him. What right did an obnoxious murderer have to judge him?

Of course, Bruce could fathom the cause of Craig's hatred, and it came down to an individual they were both familiar with, King. Craig obviously felt some form of loyalty to his former rival and felt he was being exploited. Bruce was perfectly aware of his own actions; he used King as a cash cow, or cash jaguar as it were. But as far as Bruce was concerned, after all the hard work and funding he had poured into realising King's dream, he was entitled to the wealth that resulted. And in King's vegetative state, he was hardly going to complain.

Bruce heard the taunting sound of camera shutters clicking away like cruel laughter. When he tilted his head back to identify the source of the sound, he saw it was the same tourists he had tried to cripple before, not one of them having the thought or consideration to help him out of his predicament. This was just a little too humiliating.

Bruce turned his gaze reluctantly towards Craig, who wore a smirk. "What the fuck! Why you just standing there? Help me up, you moron!"

Craig slowly knelt down, and with surprising strength for a man his age, lifted both the chair and Bruce to an upright position.

Bruce shot the snap happy tourists a murderous glare before turning once again to Craig. "Don't think for a second that I'm going to forget about this, Marduk," he hissed venomously, before gliding off in his chair towards the check in desks. "And push that goddamn chair!" he said, jabbing a finger towards King, who had barely moved during the whole incident.

---

After waiting in a short queue, the three reached the desk to check in for their three and a half hour flight to Tokyo International. Bruce had just placed the tickets and passports on the desk. "We're at Mishima Meadows, the luggage is being checked in separately for us."

The desk clerk confirmed this, hitting a few keys on her keyboard.

"Hi Irv." Bruce looked to up to see Anna standing at an adjacent desk.

"Hey Anna."

It had been a while since the two former associates had spoken. Bruce, ever the entrepreneur, was constantly preoccupied with his business dealings. And Anna had her own business to deal with, the most pressing being; how best to scuff the nauseating sheen of respectability that was accumulating around Nina.

"You keep some lousy company, Irv," Anna remarked when she noticed Craig. She admonished herself for not having considered the likelihood of him being there. Where there was Bruce there was King, and where there was King there was usually Craig. _Biographer my pert, little ass, where the fuck _is_ the biography? That ape probably can't even hold a pen._

Bruce looked over his shoulder to where Craig stood sentry over King. "Tell me about it."

"Are you…alright with the…?" Anna waved her hand around indicating the airport.

Bruce grinned. "Oh, sure girl, I got over that a long time ago. I had to. It's gonna take a hundred plane crashes to kill me," he said, almost proudly.

"Where's the fat musketeer?"

"Ganryu? He's still under; you know how he gets when someone even mentions the name Chang. It's going to be at least two weeks before they can bring his heart rate down and get him into any kind of normal state." His brow furrowed. "Whatever normal is for him."

"You're looking good, Anna," said Craig, cutting through the repartee between Anna and Bruce like a knife.

_That asshole. That fucking asshole!_ Anna could feel the papers she held between her gloved fingers crumple and distort under sudden, intense pressure. She wrestled with her veil of nonchalance and indifference, feeling her lips curl into a sneer that was more for her benefit than Craig's. "About as enticing as a bunch of bananas I should imagine," she quipped flatly, not looking at him. _Piece of Neanderthal shit._

"Sir?" The woman behind the desk was holding a passport and looking questioningly at Bruce. "The gentleman there with the mask on, is that a Mr Diego Octavio Rodriguez Szczepanski?"

Anna's anger was suddenly forgotten as she nearly creased double in raucous laughter. "You've got to be kidding," she said incredulously, though the look in Bruce's eyes told her otherwise. "No wonder the poor bastard never married!"

Bruce nodded in affirmation to the desk clerk's query.

"Could you ask him to remove his mask please?"

"Aww hell!" Bruce looked ready to explode. "Goddamn it woman, do you know who this man is? Asking him to remove his mask is like asking Jesus to remove his halo!"

Meanwhile, further back in the queue, Marshall had finally managed to reach his mysteriously absent wife over the phone.

"The plane's taking off in just over an hour, where are you?" Marshall's gaze drifted over the floor tiles while he listened to the response. "Sl…slow down, honey. Of course I don't have…" he felt as if he were about to commit a crime by saying the next word, and cupped his hand around the phone, "herpes." Marshall's eyes went wide as he listened to what his wife said next. "What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" he barked at the phone. "Oh, so now _I'm_ the one with loose morals! Last I checked it was _you_ who'd been sleeping with the chiropodist!"

Marshall was at this point gaining an audience who were all too glad to have a distraction from standing around waiting to be served. "No honey, I do not find foie gras more exciting than you… For God's sake honey, you are not in competetion with my cruisine!" He was forced to hold the phone a few inches from his ear as a stream of invective poured from the speaker. "I can't believe you just said that," he gasped. There was a 'click'. "Honey…honey?"

Marshall snapped his phone shut and moved off hastily to find someone to take him back to the retirement home. Paul, who had been trying with determination for the last few minutes to perform an origami miracle on the silk handkerchief from his pocket, was grabbed by the lapel of his jacket as Marshall sped past.

"…and that's why we can't remove his mask," Bruce finished explaining.

"Ohhh," drawled the desk clerk, with a sparkle of enlightenment in her eyes. She hit a few more keys before announcing, "Everything's in order, Mr Irvin. Passengers with wheelchairs will be boarding at gate seven."

Anna was already checked in and had been waiting patiently with Bruce for the last few minutes. "Um, Irv, I'm going to head off to the departure lounge. I don't know what the little nurse was thinking of with a schedule like this, but I intend to make full use of the duty free stuff." She shuddered when her gaze drifted over Craig. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see ya," said Bruce, reclaiming their passports and holding tightly onto Craig's while the enormous hand closed over it to take it from his grip. "'You're looking good, Anna,'" he simpered in an imitation that was about as close to Craig's bass tones as the Sun from Neptune.

Craig growled, nearly crushing Bruce's hand in his grip as he took back his passport.

---

Having finally managed to hail a taxi outside of the airport, Marshall had been about to give the driver directions when Paul had decided to divulge his latest theory on taxi drivers being the propagators of the extra terrestrial oppression currently being imposed on Earth. Afterwards he refused to ride in the taxi, claiming that he would simply wait at the airport till Heihachi picked him up on his way back from the funeral.

And so, Marshall now pulled Paul after him as he looked about desperately for anyone who could accompany his companion through the airport, confident that Paul would not be able to meet this challenge alone, being the 'toughest in the universe' aside. He nearly jumped when he spotted the upswept, golden mane of Nurse Saunders, who was accompanied by the even more icily stoic than usual, Kazuya, if such a thing were possible.

The nurse turned around at the tap on her shoulder. "Oh, hello Marshall." She looked over his shoulder and then over Paul's, as if expecting to see someone else. "Where's your wife?"

Marshall took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but the nurse interjected with her usual foresight. "Another argument?"

Marshall nodded mutely.

"Need someone to 'escort' Mr Phoenix?"

Marshall nodded again.

Nurse Saunders' eyes flitted about like captive humming birds for a moment. "Well there's not much time. I need to ensure that Mrs McKinney's guinea pig is being transported correctly and then I need to supervise Mr Wulong." Her eyes slowly came to settle on the purple clad Kazuya. "Mishima-san, do you think…" she started brightly but didn't bother to finish her sentence. Icy or not, there was a raging inferno behind Kazuya's eyes at that moment. "Right."

Marshall held Nurse Saunders' gaze pleadingly for a moment before she broke away, shouting towards a passing figure, "Nina!"

---

Christie waited patiently at the entrance of the security check area, absentmindedly rotating the bangles around her wrist. She hoped he hadn't somehow discovered the packages she'd planted. It would only complicate matters, and she wasn't in the mood for more complications right now. The success of the next operation would have some very serious implications. She wanted to be able to monitor it without unnecessary distractions.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves. When she opened them again the person she least wanted to see was heading in her direction, arm linked with Paul Phoenix. As usual, Paul looked unhinged or inebriated, which of the two she couldn't tell, but it usually didn't make much difference. She really wished she could pretend she hadn't seen the woman and look away, but she just couldn't take the risk. Even a drunkard like Phoenix might notice something amiss.

"Hi Nina," she piped in the chirpiest voice she could muster. "Are you and Paul here an item now?" Paul gave her a highly suspicious glance that immediately set her heart racing. _For God's sake Christie, calm down. The man probably doesn't even know who you are, let alone where you're putting your money._

Nina looked at Christie, something glacial shifting in the depths of those sapphire eyes. Her face was uncertain for a moment before opting for a weak smile. "No Christie, Paul's just accompanying me so I don't get lost."

Paul was glancing suspiciously again, this time at Nina.

"Oh, ever the gentleman, huh?" said Christie, before forcing out one her patented giggles that always made her wish she were twenty again.

"Yes, of course," Nina agreed, gently squeezing Paul's arm. "Anyway, we should be off. If you're waiting for Bruce, I think I just saw him a little way behind us. See you later," she said, before she and Paul continued on.

"Oh, thanks Nina," said Christie with a smile that instantly dissolved as soon as she looked away. She took another breath. Nina was the loose end that Christie had never anticipated. Seeing her again when she had first arrived at Mishima Meadows was almost enough to make her consider leaving. She knew it was unlikely that Nina would divulge to anyone the details of the contract they both signed all those years ago, but it was still enough to set her on edge whenever she laid eyes on the former assassin.

"Hey girl."

It was Bruce, and as usual he was with the mute Mexican and the almost as mute Marduk, Christie noted. _Show time_. She lunged forward enthusiastically, arms extended. "Hi sweetie."

"You ready to fly, girl?" he said, grinning suggestively.

_Oh, dear God,_ she thought, mentally cringing. She was sure she'd just seen Marduk's eyes roll at the comment as well. "I know I am, are you, sweetie?"

Bruce chuckled hoarsely and threw an arm around her less than slender hips before they moved through to the checkpoint.

King was wheeled through the scanning device by a security guard. Then Craig stooped through, Christie, and finally, Bruce.

"Ever since President Bush was assassinated," Bruce remarked, "it's always been a pain in the ass to get through airport security. Guess we got lucky today."

Christie picked up her handbag from a conveyor belt and smiled to mask her frustration. _Fuck!_ This wasn't supposed to happen. She started rummaging through her bag as if she'd lost something, stalling. Still nothing. Bruce draped his arm around her hips again, and before she knew it they were moving. Moving _away_ from the checkpoint. _Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it. Find it…._

"Sir!" a male voice called out from behind them. Christie had to stop herself from sighing with relief. They were all still moving, but the voice called out again, more insistently this time. "Sir!" They all turned around, Christie doing her utmost to look surprised. "Could you step aside here please, sir?"

Bruce looked at the security guard quizzically. "Me?"

"Yes, you sir."

"Aww hell!" he exclaimed, gliding over in his chair to the security guard. "What is this? I'm going to be late for the funeral of a dear friend of mine. A funeral, man! What is it? What's the problem?"

"We'll need to take a look at your chair, sir," said the security guard, interrupting Bruce.

Christie stood next to Craig and King, watching the scene unfold in front of her, a smile blossoming on her lips.

The security guard removed one of the plastic casings on the arm of Bruce's chair, revealing nothing.

"This is discrimination!" Bruce bawled, incensed.

The guard moved patiently to the other arm of the chair and removed an identical casing. He scrutinized the opening a moment. Christie held her breath. He reached into the cavity with his fingers and a few seconds later withdrew several suspicious looking plastic wrapped packages of what appeared to be fine, white powder.

Bruce's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. "Th…the hell!? This is a set up! I'm being framed!"

_And…show time._ Christie stormed over to the completely dumbfounded Bruce. "Bruce, what is all this, answer me!"

Bruce looked at her, wide-eyed and aghast. "Christie…baby…I…you gotta believe me."

"What are those packages, Bruce? Explain it to me."

Bruce was too stunned to even answer.

"You'll have to come with us, sir," the guard stated before turning to address Christie. "Are you his wife, miss?"

Christie shook her head slowly, dramatically, while forcing tears into her eyes. "I thought you were better than this, Bruce," she whispered, staring at him accusingly.

She turned on her heel and swept past Craig, who had been watching the whole incident with a malicious grin pasted to his face. Something her agent had once said to her suddenly replayed itself in her head. '_Stick to the modelling, Christie, you're not cut out for acting.' Yeah, right._

Kazuya watched as Bruce was ushered away down a long corridor. _What has that greedy ignoramus done this time?_ He just hoped the security guard wasn't the contact he himself needed to meet.

He treaded slowly, now sans-Nurse Saunders, towards the scanning device, before stepping through the archway unhurriedly. He expected some form of response, a buzzer, a siren, something. There was nothing. Kazuya had no choice but to continue walking, slowly. But in the next moment a face popped up from behind the security desk and a burly guard stepped out and walked purposefully towards Kazuya.

The security guard came to a stop in front of him. "Are you familiar with the Bush Act of 2008, sir?"

Kazuya nodded, that was the code phrase.

"We run a random search policy at this airport, and you have been randomly selected sir," he stated.

He began to pat lightly down Kazuya's legs, his arms and then… The guard thrust his hand into the inner pocket of Kazuya's suit jacket and withdrew it again. "You're free to go sir."

Kazuya smiled and began to head off to the departure lounge, feeling the extra weight of the gun in his pocket pulling the jacket to one side slightly. This was an arrangement Kazuya had in place ever since leaving Japan several years ago. If he was going back to his native soil, he was not going to do so without a gun. It would be suicide to do otherwise.

---

Nina dragged Paul after her as she walked along the aisle of the plane, looking for their seats. Paul seemed to spot them first and unceremoniously threw himself down next to someone. Nina guessed - judging from the veiled hat - that it was a woman, though the rest of her was obscured. She walked over to take the seat next to Paul but stopped when she realised who the stranger actually was.

"Hello Anna."

Anna looked up from the magazine she was reading and blinked. "Nina?"

Nina waved, smiling. _I knew there was a reason I was putting up with Phoenix. God works in mysterious ways._

"This is first class. You've obviously taken a wrong turn somewhere," Anna said, glancing down the aisle of the plane, "though I have no idea how." Nina raised a thin brow. "If you go _that_ way I'm sure you'll find the steerage much more to your liking."

Nina ignored the barb and sat down, sinking comfortably into the plush chair.

Anna glared at her. "What? Are you deaf now too? Get your wrinkly fucking ass out of that first class chair and take your friend with you, bitch!"

"First of all, Anna, this _is_ my chair. Marshall and his wife couldn't make it, so my 'friend' and I," she indicated Paul, "were upgraded. Second," she said coolly, "there is no steerage on planes, that's on ships, dear."

Anna's nails sank into the arms of her chair; it was all she could do to stop herself from hyperventilating.

Paul began to stare intensely at the bags at Anna's feet, where the neck of a bottle of vodka poked out tantalisingly. He began to bite his nails, his eyes never leaving the bottle. Eventually he finally worked up some courage and leaned closer to Anna. "Do you think maybe I could…"

Anna looked at him and followed his gaze to the duty free bottles she had just purchased.

"Just a sip," Paul hissed beginning to tremble.

She reached down into the bag and all but threw the bottle at Paul. "Sure, knock yourself out," she cried cheerily, "this company couldn't possibly get any worse."

---

Kazuya mounted the last step of the stairway leading up to the plane feeling light headed. Why did everything have to be so challenging when you reached this age? He entered the plane and the stewardess directed him towards his seat. When he was halfway there a kafuffle seemed to erupt just ahead of him in the aisle. A few of the passengers complained loudly as they where thrown sideways onto chairs. The source of the human avalanche revealed itself to be Lei Wulong, travelling hastily towards him, contra flow to the rest of the traffic.

Kazuya was pushed aside roughly as Lei sped past. He only just managed to grab at a chair to prevent himself from falling to the floor, and suddenly felt the urge to pull out his gun and retire the ex-cop in a more permanent manner, but he was suddenly chilled by a worrying thought. _What if he took the gun?_ Senile or not, the cop couldn't be trusted. Even at his considerable age, when arthritis was an inevitability, he still had deft hands, and it wasn't uncommon for pick pocketing thievery to occur while Lei was around.

He quickly found his seat before reaching into his pocket, relieved to feel the smooth, cold metal of the gun beneath his fingers. _Thank God for that._

_/God's more of a pacifist these days. I wouldn't credit him with that./_

_I wouldn't credit you with much either,_ thought Kazuya, crossing his arms.

_/We have much to discuss, little one,/_ said the demon, solemnly.

_How about, you talk and I listen, then?_

_/Of course, little one./_

---

Two hours into the flight, Paul slumped forward in his chair, still grasping a second empty bottle of vodka in his hand.

"Woo, he can pack 'em," Anna slurred, refilling her cup with something that smelled suspiciously like turpentine.

"May I?" asked Nina, holding out a cup she'd just been drinking tea from. She would never have asked under normal circumstances unless she wanted Anna to blow up, but drinking this much usually made her less volatile, so she thought she'd take the chance.

Anna looked at her sister, swaying slightly. "Sure, why not? If it gives you something else to repent for then I'm happy, right?" She started pouring the noxious fluid into Nina's cup, but found herself becoming distracted. "What the hell are you wearing?" she said flatly, eyeing Nina's grey pinafore with disdain.

Nina pulled her cup back to her lap. "This?" she said, brushing out a few creases with her fingers. "Well we _are_ about to attend a funeral."

Anna's face crumpled into a spectacularly unattractive grimace. "It's like a fucking funeral everyday with you. I mean, first it's the purple camouflage bin bags and now this. Christ Nina, I wouldn't wear that to _my_ funeral. And the answer is no, before you bother asking, an early menopause is not an excuse for looking like shit."

Nina shot Anna a look so rife with murderous intent she could see her visibly recoil. She downed the whole cup of liquid - which was of considerable size - in one go, and shot her arm out towards Anna. "Give me another one."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Characters featured in the Tekken series are owned by Namco (obviously). I remain neutral on the subject of Michael Jackson's criminal charges, even if Lee Chaolan doesn't :)

**Warning: **Some bad language, alcohol and Paul abuse and…**PENSIONER SEX!** It aint explicit but it is there. You have been warned lol.

**Author's Notes: **Please, I like reviews. If they're critical (and constructive) then even better. Sorry for the wait for this chapter, please enjoy.

-

-

**Chapter 3**

The three had continued their impromptu drinking session through the entire three and half hour flight to Tokyo International Airport. Now the two Williams sisters staggered with their arms linked either side of a just lucid Paul Phoenix, like victims of chemical warfare involving copious amounts of alcohol based weapons. They were heading across the runway towards the terminal, and they were officially sloshed.

"And then I said, 'It's not toothpaste, it's pile cream!'" Anna was overtaken by a dangerous fit of laughter that caused her to nearly topple over in her heels for the fourth time.

Nina gasped for air, having laughed more in the last hour than she had in roughly six years, and futilely attempted to compose herself before they entered the airport. Her addled mind eventually came to the conclusion that another drink might help, so with abandon she threw back the bottle still clasped in her hand and attempted to take another swig, but nothing happened.

It had been after three quarters of an undiluted bottle of vodka that Nina came to the realisation that world peace really was achievable. That was the moment she knew with absolute certainty that she was drunk. Now, after one and half bottles of undiluted vodka it was fair to say that her grasp on the laws of physics - including the one about vodka bottles being empty when they stopped pouring - was tenuous at best.

She stopped, bringing all three of them to a halt - Anna narrowly avoiding falling over for the fifth time - whilst she pondered this conundrum. Holding the bottle upright in front of her, she once again upended it and stared dumbly when no vodka poured forth. _Hmmm…_ She blinked a few times before offering her sound conclusion, "It's broke."

"You're doing it wrong you bint," hissed Anna, snatching the bottle from her sister's grasp. She then lifted it above her head, tipped the lip downwards and eyed the opening as if it were a telescope.

"What are you looking for, a leprechaun? It's _empty_ you stupid bitch," Paul managed to slur from somewhere within a comfortable delirium._ Is everyone from Ireland this stupid after a few drinks? Place must be a fucking death trap._

Anna gave him a sidelong glance. "Uh," was the only response she gave. She swung her arm back in a motion that suggested she were about to throw the 'empty' bottle away to shatter all over the tarmac.

"Anna, you can't do that," said Nina, wide eyed and looking like the timid co conspirator of a schoolyard delinquent.

"Why not?" asked Anna, waving the bottle around in blasé fashion that promised to have it as smashed as they were in the next few seconds.

Nina was about ready give a well reasoned response when she noticed Paul's lingering stare. "… What?"

"You know, you used to be _hot_," he said slowly, the words melting into each other to create a vaguely coherent garble that concluded with the last word being spat out like a glob of phlegm.

It was as if the ground had suddenly disappeared from beneath Nina's feet._ He doesn't find me attractive? _She couldn't have heard him correctly; this was Paul Phoenix, he _always_ found her attractive. It was simple; Pi equalled three point one four one five nine two six, the Earth was round, two plus two equalled five and Paul Phoenix found her attractive. Nina would meet Paul, Paul would proposition Nina, Nina would kick Paul in the groin and everyone was happy. He had only stopped trying because he was worried he would become infertile…hadn't he?

_Hold on a second, why do I care? _Things were slightly disorganized in Nina's head since logic had departed on a holiday for the last few hours to leave her other faculties in charge. Nina the pious, born again saint reflected sagely that beauty came from within and that outward appearance was inconsequential. Nina the beautiful but deadly assassin was still upset over that early menopause quite a few years ago. Forty times over the recommended daily allowance of alcohol consumption Nina was considering disassembling Paul with a hatchet.

"Used to be?" she found herself asking, almost timidly.

Paul gave her a pitying look, as if surveying the wreckage of a beloved family home that had been struck down in a hurricane. The flawless pale skin now pallid and devitalised, the glorious mane of shimmering, golden hair now white and straggly - flecked with grey, those once firm and proud pair of… When Paul looked at the old woman standing before him it truly was a tragedy.

Nina's face contorted with barely concealed anger, while Anna was busy trying to stifle a guffaw.

He turned to the younger sister and gave a swift surveying glance. "You haven't changed though."

Anna seemed immensely satisfied with this, smirking and attempting to flick out her hair in a nonchalant gesture that only succeeded in knocking her hat off.

"No," he continued "you were never hot. You just always dressed like a slut to try and make up for it."

Time stood still.

Anna stared at Paul's haggard face with a look that could melt steel. Paul's expression was that of one confronted with a feral beast ready to pounce at any given moment, Nina's stoic as she calmly assessed the situation.

Anna glanced at Nina. Nina looked at Paul. Paul's eyes flitted nervously between them both, a small bead of perspiration cascading down his temple. The barely audible creak of Anna's tightening leather clad fist preceded an inordinate period of unbroken silence.

_Go on_, Anna thought, _sign your death warrant._

Paul bent down stiffly - defying the distinct lack of equilibrium he was feeling – and swept up Anna's hat from the ground. Lightly brushing away a slight covering of dust from the article, he gave a dentally challenged grin and shoved the hat squarely back onto her head.

"Hey, a lot of guys like it. I'm just picky," he explained still grinning, and gave a playful slap to Anna's backside.

The bottle that was being held in Anna's white knuckled fist was swung in an arc so swiftly it exploded in a blossom of bright shards upon impact with Paul's head, Nina's foot simultaneously hurtling forward on a collision course with his crotch. He was out cold before his body could even slump to the tarmac in a heap.

Anna immediately set to work trying to see how many vital organs she could impale with her stilettos, while Nina hoped for some broken ribs and internal bleeding from a few well placed kicks with her more sensible flat shoes.

Satisfied that this phoenix wouldn't be rising from the ashes any time soon, Anna stepped directly onto the corpse rather than around it, and held her arm out towards her sister. Nina swiftly linked her arm through Anna's without sparing a glance for the pensioner they'd just assaulted, though she did inwardly debate whether she had kicked one too many times for the act to be considered wholly Christian. If she were feeling any qualms now though, she was sure they would all be neatly resolved when she went for confession.

Discarding from her hand what remained of the bottle Anna adjusted her hat to its previous, fashionable angle. "Let's get the hell out of here, there's white trash everywhere and it's starting to stink," she said disdainfully. And they strolled off casually into the airport.

Nurse Saunders made another tick on her clipboard as one more Mishima Meadows resident passed her by, leaving three remaining empty tick boxes. To her good fortune she noticed the William's sisters coming in her direction. _That just leaves Paul Phoenix._

"Ladies," she greeted, noting their unusually close proximity.

"Afternoon," said Anna with a frigid smile.

"Cathy," greeted Nina politely.

The Nurse began to move off in the opposite direction to find the man who was defying her quota, her eyes lingering on the retreating backs of the sisters.

The pair kept walking steadily down the long corridor, stopping when they heard a scream that undoubtedly belonged to Nurse Saunders. It was followed by a loud exclamation of, "Oh my God!" They glanced at one another, and after a moment resumed their casual pace down the corridor…laughing hysterically.

---

An autumnal Tokyo cityscape sped by as Kazuya watched idly through the limousine's tinted windows. His face was a mask of indifference, but beneath it his thoughts were shifting, sliding and colliding with one another like waves on a turbulent ocean. He sighed, raising a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose and willing the throb behind his temples to cease. To be back in Japan meant that another pivotal moment of his life was about to occur, experience having taught him this was irrefutable fact. He merely hoped it wouldn't involve a one thousand foot drop to his death at the bottom of a chasm…or an active volcano - he'd been slightly put out by that incident.

His brooding was drawn to a close as the limousine reached its destination and slowed to a halt. Surveying the scene outside, he wasn't surprised to see the menagerie of reporters, camera crews and security guards milling around beyond the grounds of the temple that was to be the venue for the ceremony. The old cretin's funeral was likely to be as gaudy and ostentatious as the man himself. And of course, there adorning the temple wall, was an enormous portrait of a familiar face smiling beneficently in condescension. _Tasteless bastard._

Withdrawing a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, Kazuya gave a soulful sigh before sliding them over his mismatched eyes and resigning himself to his fate.

The chauffeur opened the door to allow his passenger to step out onto a red carpet, but Kazuya had barely planted an expensive loafer on the ground before hundreds of epileptic fit inducing flashbulbs went off. Then the questions started.

"Mishima-san, how do feel about being left out of Mishima Heihachi's will?"

_It would have been a miracle if I_ hadn't_ been left out, fool._ He decided not to dignify that question with a response.

"Kazuya, would you care to comment on the rumours that three Malaysian orphans were killed on your orders in the creation of your hairpiece?"

"Those rumours are completely spurious. This is my natural hair, and the incident involving the three _Taiwanese_ orphans," he corrected, "was resolved out of court. Two of them even survived."

---

Within the gold and crimson opulence of the temple, gathered the many souls that had ever had the pleasure or misfortune of crossing paths with the late Heihachi Mishima. Just like everything else about the father of the Mishima Zaibatsu, his funeral wasn't just big, it was an international incident on a similar scale to the time Madonna's appendix had to be removed. Relatives, foreign dignitaries, businessmen, politicians, old acquaintances, and of course, competitors of past Iron Fist tournaments, came to pay their respects to the man who had been like a godfather to them all - a domineering, self-interested and merciless godfather.

The large chamber was able to encompass hundreds of people as well as a rather ample selection of food on several long buffet tables, while a quartet in one corner of the room provided an inoffensive selection of traditional and western music for the occasion. Despite the sombre pallet of the would-be mourners and the gentile restraint that forced many of them to keep their conversations to a murmur, the champagne was flowing freely and there was an air of optimism about the congregation.

"It's like walking into a pit of snakes."

"A pit of decrepit snakes. I wouldn't worry about it; most of their fangs have dropped out."

"Still…I was beginning to think we would never see this day," Julia murmured, looking across the gathering to the front of the chamber where another huge portrait of the deceased was hanging.

Julia Fox-Chang was enjoying the culmination of years of hard work spent protecting the environment and securing human rights for those living in the shadow of oppression. Now she was not only a UN High Commissioner but also a media darling whose face was ubiquitous with any virtuous cause. And like any peoples' champion, Julia needed a suitable adversary against which she could show her true might. Heihachi Mishima and his Zaibatsu had proven to be more than capable of fulfilling that role. Like a persistent rash, the Zaibatsu seemed to constantly reappear in Julia's case files, revealing itself to be the source of numerous problems on a worldwide scale.

Standing there at the long overdue funeral of a man who she considered was quite possibly the most pernicious, baleful and insidious individual to have graced humanity, Julia couldn't help but ask, "Is it wrong to feel this happy about someone else's death?"

Steve wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Of course it is love, but why don't we just enjoy this precious moment of moral depravity together, hmm?"

Steve's personal dealings with the Zaibatsu hadn't been anymore genial than Julia's. Yet to learn the identity of his father, he could only mull bitterly over the questionable ethics of the methods behind his conception. It was a mutual dislike for the Mishima's that had eventually brought Julia and Steve together on both personal and professional levels.

"You politicians are all the same," Julia said, leaning into Steve's chest with a smile across her lips.

"You mean witty, charming and intellectually stimulating?"

Julia cocked a brow and observed her husband with a half lidded gaze. "Exactly… Full of it." Steve opened his mouth as if to protest. "And don't say you're hurt," she interjected, jabbing a finger into his chest, "you're all unfeeling monsters."

"Well _that_ hurt, your fingers are right bony."

Julia's smile faded after a moment as a thought began to edge its way to the forefront of her mind. "Oh God, please tell me _she's_ not going to be here?"

"Who?" he asked innocently, knowing exactly who his wife was referring to. Julia merely responded with another inclined brow. Steve looked impossibly sheepish despite his formal attire and being well beyond the age when such a look was easily achieved. "… Yes."

Julia shivered. "I don't know how you can stand sharing DNA with that woman."

"Well I think we're both familiar with that particular bedtime story. Give her a break, Jules."

"She just gives me the creeps," she said rather undiplomatically.

"So you've said on countless occasions, I don't think there was any doubt of that, love."

Steve gazed down at his wife trying his utmost to cultivate an admonishing scowl…and failed miserably. Even through the carefully constructed smile that Julia was never to be seen without in public, he could see that she was pouting. It was impossible to be angry with Julia when she was pouting.

---

"I, Heihachi Mishima, being of sound mind and body, do herby bequeath my estate, consisting…"

Kazuya had spent the best part of an hour sitting in a particularly cramped and stuffy room at the back of the temple, awaiting the reading of Heihachi's will. First he'd had to wait for a number of tardy beneficiaries to turn up, then he'd had to contend with the rambling, circuitous stammering of a solicitor running through some banal formalities. To top it off he'd been forced to valiantly ignore the spectacular stench of someone who was quite obviously unacquainted with the concept of deodorant. By the time the will was actually being read the odour was the only thing keeping Kazuya awake.

"…Lee Chaolan I bequeath…"

Kazuya watched as his brother's face lit up smugly a few seats away within a customary haze of smoke. _Grovelling, little shit. Don't think for a second that any of that bootlicking's actually paid off._

Lee, having successfully inflamed Heihachi's ire many years ago, had spent the proceeding years trying to wheedle his way back into his good books in hopes of some form of remuneration for his services. Kazuya wasn't sure whether to believe his adoptive brother could actually be so naïve or if there was an alternate agenda being followed, but either way he was sure Lee's efforts would come to nought.

The solicitor continued in a monotonous drawl and Lee's face dropped and settled for a look of utter dejection after hearing what was said next.

_Whatever else you might say about him, Heihachi always did have a good sense of humour,_ Kazuya thought to himself.

"To Kazuya Mishima I bequeath…" This, Kazuya had not expected. He was supremely confident that he would receive nothing in the will. The main objective behind his attendance was to try and keep track of Heihachi's assets so he could claim them for himself at a more appropriate time. Had he misjudged the old fossil?

The thought was immediately dismissed upon learning what he had just inherited.

/_Your father certainly does have a good sense of humour, doesn't he?_/ the demon chimed in.

_Shut up._

/I_nspired, Kazuya. I'd clap but…you know…_/

"To Yuuki Aikawa…"

/_Ah yes, daddy's little whore._/

'_Worked _under_ Mishima Heihachi for four years in a secretarial capacity. Discreet and flexible, able to assume various positions as required'_, Kazuya stated, deadpan. _That's going to look good on her resume. _He and the demon shared a brief chuckle.

"…the sum of…"

/_That much? Did he get her pregnant or something?/_

---

This was precisely why she usually avoided alcohol – other than the precepts laid down in the good book of course. It made her feel relaxed, at ease, comfortable…and then uncomfortable, and then jittery. Then she would lose her composure entirely, the way she was feeling now. And if there was one thing Nina would not tolerate it was feeling as if she wasn't in control. That was why she had spent the last twenty minutes skulking around the congregation, trying to identify the source of the champagne that - by some foul iniquity - everyone except her appeared to be drinking. If she couldn't find a way to deal with these insecurities, she would just obliterate them with more alcohol. That was the plan - foolproof.

Why exactly had she started drinking in first place? Nina rifled through the foggy, disorganized annals of her brain until she came upon a shelf marked 'Steve'. Her…_son. _It just never got any easier to say it. She had a _son_. As if that alone hadn't been frighteningly domestic, she soon found out she was also a grandmother. Twelve years since she had worked up the courage to pursue some kind of _relationship_ with Steve and she still didn't feel particularly comfortable with any of it. She never was good with those sorts of things, but then when she had to do it all beneath the four-eyed scrutiny of Steve's wife, would be saviour of humanity, Julia Chang… It was no secret, Nina did not like Julia Chang…and she didn't like her glasses either. G_ives me the creeps_, she thought absently.

A phone began to ring, drawling out a harsh, incessant ditty that succeeded in attracting some affronted glares in Nina's general direction as she headed towards the retreating back of a waiter dispensing wine glasses. _You can give me as many dirty looks as you like, I'm going to get some of that champagne. _The waiter seemed to dematerialise amongst a throng of people, but Nina soon spotted another one and began to close in.

A few glares later and she started glaring back for good measure. _Miserable bastards. It's Heihachi Mishima's funeral, cheer up. And sweet Jesus, if someone doesn't switch that bloody phone off there're going to be two funerals today._

_What now?_ She whipped around after feeling a light tapping on her shoulder. "Ahem." A dowager with a droopy, equine visage was scrutinising her as if an unpleasant stain upon the expensive, parquet floor. "Do you think you could possibly switch that off, dear? It really is making the most dreadful racket."

"What?" Nina stared in utter incomprehension. _God do I need a drink._

The dowager seemed to lose patience after that and enunciated her next sentence as if she were speaking to someone deaf or mentally challenged. "Your – phone – dear, do – you – think – you – could – switch – it – awff?"

_My phone? My phone doesn't…_ She dipped her hand into to her pocket and pulled out a completely unfamiliar phone. _Where the hell did that come from?_ Sure enough it was the source of all the noise, and apparently it was rapping.

"_I like big butts and I can not lie_

_You other brothers can't deny"_

She was horrified…

"_That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist  
And a round thing in your face_

_You get…"_

She had _not_ just been walking around for the last few minutes at a formal event with a phone in her pocket loudly proclaiming that she got 'sprung' when girls with big butts stuck them in her face.

A stubby finger came down on the receive button of the phone as Nina held it, cutting off whatever equally inspired lyrics were about to follow. "Don't you think you should answer it, dear?" the dowager bit out condescendingly. It wasn't really a question so much as a demand.

Nina lifted the phone to her ear slowly, wondering what to say to the person at the other end when they realised they were speaking to a total stranger. "… Hello?"

"Nina?"

"Marshall…! Hi."

It suddenly came back to her. Marshall had been in too much of a hurry to swap numbers so he'd handed her Paul's phone. Apparently she'd forgotten. Who could have known that alcohol could impair one's faculties to such an extent? It truly was a revelation.

"You…sound a little…off. Everything alright?" came Marshall's artificially nasal query down the phone.

It occurred to Nina that it probably wouldn't be prudent to inform Marshall she'd had a little too much to drink while supervising his _alcoholic_ friend. "You know, all this travelling, it makes me feel a little…lethargic." It was the best she could do. Nina was never particularly skilled at deception - never had need of it. They hadn't dubbed her the 'Silent Assassin' without reason.

"Paul there? Can I speak to him?"

Just where was Paul exactly? "Uh…Paul is…is indisposed right now."

_Well that's hardly a rare occurrence._ "Is he alright? Please tell me it wasn't the sterilizing alcohol from a first aid kit again."

Nina saw her avenue of escape and took it without hesitation. "Yes, yes that's exactly what happened. And you see…there were these stairs -"

"I - I'm sorry Nina," Marshall interrupted, "could you just hold on a sec? I have another call coming in."

Nina gave sigh and took a moment to iron out her story. _Alright, so he got pissed and fell down the stairs…? Works for me_. But where was Paul now? Knowing the good nurse, he was probably tucked into a cosy hospital bed in intensive care. _Oh shit!_ Nurse Saunders was sure to say something. _Right, so he got pissed, fell down the stairs, you went to get help…but then you didn't…and just left him to fry like a fish in the midday sun…? This is Anna's fault._

Suddenly Marshall was back on the line. "That was Cathy."

"…"

"Nina, how did Paul end up with a concussion, a ruptured artery, three broken ribs, a punctured lung and a hairline fracture to his skull?"

Yes, this was most definitely Anna's fault. "Well as I said, there were these stairs."

"Nina, the injuries I just mentioned were just the ones _above_ the waistline. Stairs do not do that to a man's -"

"There were _a lot _of stairs," Nina said adamantly. "Look Marshall, I -" She was interrupted by a female voice reeling off a stream of profanities at Marshall's end of the line.

"Honey, I'm on the phone. Do you think this could wait a minute?" Nina could make out hysterical screeching. "But Paul's in hospital, what do you want me to – put that down! Honey, those are expensive!"

This seemed like a convenient moment to end their discussion, Nina decided. "Uh, Marsh -" Loud crashes reminiscent of an apocalypse blared out of the phone, followed by more screeching.

"No honey, I do not think my friendship with Paul is more important than our marriage." There were more crashes. "Nina, I'll need to speak to you later. Keep the phone switched on please."

The line went dead. Nina breathed a sigh of relief…then immediately switched the phone off. How was she going to deal with this one? She'd given in to the temptation to exact retribution against that arrogant yank and now she was going to have to pay the consequences. _I need a…_

…_Drink!_ A tray full of champagne glasses went clinking by right before her eyes. She was just able to snaffle one before they were out of reach. _Thank God,_ she thought, extending her arm to admire her prize. It was going to be okay. Things were actually going be okay now.

"For me?" asked Anna, breezing in from nowhere and lightly plucking the glass from Nina's grasp. "You know, you're quite considerate when you're not being an unscrupulous, shoe snatching fiend."

"You…" Nina ground out, her mood shifting from murderous to homicidal. "Give that back or so help me God I will rip both your arms out of their sockets and bludgeon you to death with them."

"Hey, we agreed there would be no bludgeoning. It can do terrible things to your face." She gave the champagne a tentative sniff.

"Now, bitch!"

Anna's gaze shot up to Nina's face. "You haven't called me that in years," she said softly, starry eyed in reminiscence. "The last time - do you remember? You tried to decapitate me but it didn't work. You just severed my jugular and there was blood everywhere." She giggled slightly. "It was a good job I wasn't wearing The Dress; blood stains can be such a bitch to -"

"Christ! Shut up and give me my fucking champagne!" Anna recoiled slightly, and it seemed the outburst wasn't lost on anyone within a sixteen foot radius, including Julia and Steve.

"Oh God," moaned Julia, her voice tinged with despair, "the other one's here too."

"Both of them…? Together?" Steve asked incredulously.

"They must be drunk, it's the only plausible explanation."

"Well someone's in need of some holy spirit," said Anna, smirking, "or maybe they've had too much?" She held the glass out daintily and Nina immediately snatched it before downing the entire contents.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Nina snapped.

"Oh, just catching up with a few undesirables," Anna replied, regarding her sister. "Either your liver's done something unforgivable, or you're nervous."

"I've had bloody Marshall Law on the phone asking after a certain friend of his – you know, the one who likes using Viagra as shampoo. Now just what was I supposed to tell him?"

"You should have just told him what happened - he probably would've thanked you." Nina glared. "I hope Paul didn't die; it would be just like that twat to do something inconsiderate like that."

"He's alive…for now. The diagnosis didn't sound good though."

"Oh well, at the worst it's manslaughter," Anna said casually, "but didn't you see the lecherous gleam in his eyes? I mean what were we supposed to do? It was obviously self-defence. I was terrified and _you_ were absolutely hysterical… He touched my _ass_!"

Nina twiddled the stemmed glass in her hand absently. "Well, I suppose I do feel pretty traumatised," she said, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"That's the spirit!"

"Except I already told Marshall that Paul fell down some stairs."

Anna gasped dramatically. "The posttraumatic stress must be even worse than I thought. You've fabricated some fictitious scenario to try and explain Paul's injuries and push what really happened from your mind, poor dear."

Nina allowed herself to feel somewhat satisfied with that explanation. _I suppose that _would_ be poetic justice if he ever tried to press charges._

"Hey," said Anna, spotting a mane of white hair, "Isn't that… It _is_ him. Let's say hi."

"Anna," Nina warned, but she was already halfway across the room and in the process of throwing her arms around her nephew as if he were a lifebuoy.

"Steve! How is my _widdle_ nephew?"

---

In the end it was of no surprise to Kazuya when the bulk of his father's estate and investments came into the hands of Akira Matsuoka, Heihachi's most recent protégé. The Japanese businessman in his mid-forties was for all intents and purposes Heihachi's new son, regardless of whether the status was official. Lee had been fighting a losing battle with Matsuoka over inheritance for years, and it was now painfully obvious who had emerged as victor.

"A bear! A fucking _Ursus arctos horribilis_ smelly fucking bear! What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" Lee shouted at no one in paticular, lighting a cigarette.

They were both walking down a corridor, Kazuya a few paces behind but eventually coming into to step with his brother.

"And what exactly were you expecting? A seventy percent shareholding in the MFE perhaps? Full ownership of the Mishima estate? His favourite quad bike? What planet are you on, Chaolan?"

Lee stopped and turned to Kazuya, smoke pluming from his nostrils. "A little bitter are we, Kazuya? I think father was more than generous with you. After all, you finally have your beloved sneaker collection back. What more could you want? I bet it's appreciated in value too."

_/Oh so generous./_

_Shut up._

"And it's not like _I_ get to partake in what must surely be the true heritage of the Mishima bloodline," said Lee, silkily.

"And what might that be?"

Lee took a slow drag and ran a hand through his thick, silver mane to emphasise his point. "Well the Mishima receding hairline of course."

Kazuya appeared to have just swallowed his tongue.

"Oh come on, if I stroked that thing on your head it would probably start purring." Lee gave a satisfied sneer and started walking again. "I hope it's had shots."

/_M-e-e-e-o-o-w._/

It was beneath Kazuya to respond to comments like that, that's what it was. "Funny, you don't seem to have done any better, Chaolan. We both got screwed. The only difference is you worked ten times as hard. If you honestly thought you ever stood a chance against Matsuoka then you're even more of an imbecile than I originally thought," he stated vehemently. "And you're right; my sneaker collection will have appreciated in value. I wish I could say the same for your new pet," he added in a rather petulant tone.

The two emerged from an adjoining corridor and back into the main chamber of the temple, Lee facing away from Kazuya, his head wreathed in smoke and his eyes riveted to the portrait of Heihachi.

"You know what? Fuck it. You and me, right here, right now."

/_Well that was definitely a proposition. I'm just not sure what kind._/

"Wh -"

Lee turned to face his brother with fire in his eyes. "This is your chance, Kazuya. You think there'll be any more tournaments now that _he's_ dead?" he said, waving a hand towards the portrait.

Kazuya wasn't sure what to make of his brother's behaviour. Lee was rarely aggressive, conniving certainly…but this?

/_He seems a little miffed, doesn't he?_/

_Well if he wants to be a quivering mass on the floor that badly then I'll happily oblige._

Kazuya drew himself into his ready stance, and though he hadn't thought to bring his gloves, it didn't matter. It simply meant he could enjoy the feeling of Chaolan's blood cooling and congealing on his fists.

"Humph, I thought so. You Mishimas make me sick. I've wasted my whole life running around wiping his backside and yours. And for what?" he hissed angrily, clenching his cigarette between his lips.

The sight of two senior citizens posturing in preparation for a potentially volatile standoff didn't seem to attract much attention. In fact no one even noticed, including a Mishima family friend who strolled up and laid a consoling hand against Kazuya's shoulder.

"I'm so terribly sorry for you loss, Kazuya."

"Wh – Fuck off, we're in the middle of some family business!" Lee shrieked, nearly biting his cigarette in half.

"You must excuse his behaviour," said Kazuya, "he's in mourning. He hasn't taken the loss well."

"I understand perfectly. This isn't easy for any of us."

"Thank you for your condolences."

Somehow that was all it took for Lee to become completely incensed. He coiled back on his right leg, ready to unleash a Silver Cyclone kick and thoroughly clean Kazuya's clock.

Until that was, a loud cracking noise issued from Lee's hip in protest. The noise was accompanied by a searing pain that ran the entire length of his leg, rapidly dissipating every ounce his concentration.

Kazuya saw his opportunity to strike, slamming into his adoptive brother's jaw with a forceful Wind God Fist. "Doory… Ahhh!" At least that had been his intention until he felt the slipped disk in his back flare up again. He was brought to a hasty slouch while he attempted to alleviate the problem by swatting at his back with a clenched fist.

Spitting out the remnants of the cigarette that he had now successfully bitten in half, Lee rubbed at his sore hip and looked over at Kazuya, who was still slouched and panting. After a moment, their gazes locked together and their mutual hostility was almost tangible.

The gruelling battle was over…and it was a draw.

/_What an absolutely terrifying display of martial arts prowess. I'm so glad _I_ wasn't at the receiving end._/

_Shut up._

The tension went unbroken for several moments, neither willing to back down and look away from the intensity of the other's eyes. The chamber and all those gathered within seemed to fade out of existence, the music of the quartet subsiding in favour of elevated heartbeats. Heat raged beneath –

"May I offer you some hors d'œuvres, sirs?"

A waiter stood to one side of the pair, brandishing a silver platter.

"This isn't over, Chaolan," Kazuya hissed, plucking a small sushi roll from the proffered tray. "One day my chiropractor is going to deal with this trapped nerve, and then I'll gladly proceed to sever your head from its fetid little body."

Lee glared, barring his teeth while chewing down on a piece of tofu as if he were rending Kazuya's very flesh. The witty retort he was working up to caught in his throat at the same time as a piece of wayward tofu, bringing on an uncontrollable coughing fit.

---

Nina and Steve were currently engaged in polite conversation over the finer points of Britain's political reforms since the Blair dictatorship had been deposed. Occasionally Anna would smile and nod politely, pretending she gave a shit, and every now and then Julia or Steve would finish each other's sentences, which Anna found cute, and oh so sickening. Steve did most of the talking, while Julia, stole furtive glances at each of the sisters when she thought they weren't looking, permanently smiling a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

_Creepy_, Anna thought, _very creepy._

She was in the process of thinking up an excuse to escape somewhere else when her attention was drawn by the sound of rather loud coughing. And judging from the phlegmatic undertones, Anna guessed it belonged to a smoker. When she looked around slightly she saw Kazuya a short distance away glaring at a head of silver hair.

"Excuse me," Anna said quickly, and moved off at a swift pace before berating herself for being so overeager.

"While this would be a fitting end for you," said Kazuya looking down at a sputtering Chaolan, "I'm sure you wouldn't care to share a funeral with one of us _filthy_ Mishimas." He gave a few less than gentle claps across his brother's back until the coughing subsided.

"Well, if isn't Mr Lee 'Not without my Viagra' Chaolan," Anna declared haughtily, appearing to one side of the pair. "To what do we owe his lordship's esteemed presence?" She gave a mockingly extravagant curtsey.

Lee looked up at her, taking a few raspy breaths and in no particular hurry to respond. Once it was apparent that he wouldn't die from oxygen deprivation he whipped out another cigarette, lit up and took a long drag.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Anna 'Special Discount' Williams," he said, replenishing his dangerously depleted aura of smoke. "In case it's slipped your attention, this is my father's funeral. Why wouldn't I be here?"

"Of course, I should have realised. You would never miss daddy's funeral with so much money at stake, would you? You're a vulture, Chaolan," she said imperiously, before switching to a more seductive tone. "Hi Kazuya."

"Anna." Kazuya folded his arms. "A vulture you say? Obviously not a very successful one."

"Oh?" Anna's eyebrows couldn't really get much higher it seemed.

"Unless you count the receipt of a bear as the sum of your inheritance," Kazuya said with a smirk.

Anna laughed shrilly and Lee's face darkened, dragonesque tendrils of smoke rising from his mouth.

"It's almost enough to make me regret his death. To have seen your face…" Anna descended into laughter again.

"Shut up, Botox Bitch, I'm still richer than you," Lee seethed.

"You little bastard! You can talk; you're one facelift away from being the next Michael Jackson!"

"Oh yeah, because I'm financially insolvent and like sharing my bed with prepubescent boys," Lee said sarcastically. "You've had more surgery than me, and you go sleeping around with men one third your age – it's sick!"

"That's ridiculous. Everyone knows I go by the size of their wallet. If they're younger then I get to enjoy the view, and if their older it just means I get to acquire the aforementioned wallet that much sooner," Anna stated succinctly. "I have no idea what I was thinking when I married you. Maybe I was hoping the lung cancer fairy would come and pay you a visit. But no such luck apparently."

Lee was halfway through another drag on his cigarette when a barrage of previously ignored health warnings suddenly flooded his mind. He snatched the cigarette from his lips as if he'd just been sucking a cyanide capsule, no longer quite sure what to do with it.

"Well you're nothing but a whore and I've paid you for your services, so you can just piss off," Lee hissed before a smirk began to form. "Ha, imagine that. I almost said cheap!" He roared with laughter at his own joke.

Anna's eyes narrowed dangerously. "If you'll excuse us I'll just take me and my surgically enhanced - to perfection - ass to find some _decent_ company."

Anna sauntered off with her nose in the air, but not before invading her ex's personal space and slapping her own derrière so the sound reverberated around the room.

Lee resolutely stalked off in the opposite direction.

/_Thoroughly charming. It's like they were made for each other._/

_Indeed._

---

"But then Dean Earwicker's writing was always so pretentious he was never able to avoid those tired clichés."

Craig laughed heartily at that one. This was such a surprise, finding other people to talk to that were of his intellectual calibre was usually extremely difficult. Yet this woman was entertaining and had good literary tastes to boot. She had a face like a horse but he supposed the old adage was true; 'Never judge a book by its cover'.

He was just about to ask her opinion of Salman Rushdie's later works when the main entrance doors were flung open with considerable force. The huge doors slammed against the inner walls and shuddered on their hinges as a high pitched wail filled the chamber. Countless pairs of eyes came to settle on the silhouetted figure of a girl in the doorway, possibly no older than sixteen, dressed in a neon pink dress.

To Craig's dismay the girl that could easily have passed as Ling Xiaoyu's granddaughter to anyone who didn't know better, ran directly towards him, still wailing with abandonment. _Great, just what I need. _His new friend did not look impressed.

Ling's arms were suddenly around his neck and she was rambling incoherently. "Craig it's so horrible everyone's going to die and then there'll be no one left but me because they'll all be dead and I won't and I'll be all alone and Granddad died and he was only a hundred and forty three but Panda died first because pandas' natural lifespans aren't very long and Panda lived longer than that so she had to die but then Miharu died in a freak yoga accident and it was so unfair but people say life's unfair so she's dead anyway and everyone else will die eventually and I'm scared…"

Craig actually felt compelled to take a breath for her, but by the time he'd done that Ling was rambling again.

"And I was going to wear something black because it's a funeral and you're supposed to wear black at funerals but it made me feel sad and I didn't want to feel sad so I put on something pink because pink makes me feel happy but then I felt guilty for feeling happy so I started to feel depressed and that made me feel better because I wasn't happy so I decided to wear pink instead of black because it created the right happy-sad balance."

No one quite understood it, Ling Xiaoyu had not aged a day in several decades. There were several prevailing theories that attempted to explain the phenomenon, one of the more outlandish ones suggesting that Ling had somehow come into contact with a high concentration of quantum particles, infusing her cells and halting the aging process. This theory however, required her to have been in close proximity to some form of time travelling device, and everyone knew that notion was simply preposterous.

Ling's grip was so tight it was beginning to hinder Craig's breathing. He would have given anything for a crowbar at that moment.

"Asuka!" Just as quickly as she had grabbed Craig, she sped off and started attaching herself to Asuka as if she were a barnacle. "Asuka it's so horrible everyone's going to die…"

Ling began to recount her tragic tale once again with some new embellishments involving a hamster, a rather sadistic cousin, and a blender. Asuka wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and glanced at her husband. She knew that look; he was about to say something.

"Feng Wei, you no speak. Think of laryngitis," she said, a finger rising up to silence him before he could even open his mouth.

Feng had caught a mild cold three years ago that caused his voice to become croaky for the four days it took for infection to clear. Asuka's diagnosis at the time had been laryngitis, and as far as she was concerned that was enough reason for her husband never to open his mouth again.

"Go get me some snacks," she commanded, pointing at a table laden with food.

Apparently almost three decades spent working as a lawyer in North America wasn't long enough for Asuka to perfect her English.

Feng nodded, eyes downcast, an ever present air of defeat about him, and walked off to perform his snack retrieval duties.

---

Christie was in love.

So enamoured was she with the divine selection of treats laid out along the buffet tables, she wasn't sure she would be able to retire to her seat when the funeral service started proper. Currently she was savouring a delightful piece tofu…that decided to become lodged uncomfortably in her throat…then refused to be dislodged. _Oh crap._ Try as she might, that piece of tofu was quite determined not to move. This wasn't how her life was supposed to end, there were so many other tasties she hadn't tried yet.

Feeling slightly panicked, she spun around in hopes of finding some assistance, and a vaguely familiar face came into view, his extremely angular features drawn into a look of contemplation, long, grey hair woven into a thick plait that he idly swept back with a hand and over a broad shoulder. Postponing putting a name to the face for the time being, Christie began to gesticulate wildly, successfully grabbing his attention. He immediately knew what was wrong when he looked up at her reddened face.

"Hold on."

Christie was quickly spun to face the other way as strong arms braced at her abdomen and proceeded to apply almost painful pressure while performing a Heimlich manoeuvre.

She failed to notice her long skirt becoming ensnared in the wheels of a passing trolley carrying empty dishes, and in the next moment it had been torn clean off.

---

Somehow Nina and Steve's conversation had drifted from British politics to George Bush to George Bush's assassination. Julia was currently engaged in comforting a distraught Ling Xiaoyu after she'd pounced and started an unintelligible verbal assault. Asuka could only give an apologetic look.

"So what were the exact circumstances surrounding his death?" Steve asked an unusually enthusiastic Nina.

"He was shot through the eye," Ling announced cheerily, as if she'd just earned a gold star, before suddenly reverting to her previous state of emotional distress.

Nina snorted contemptuously, having snagged two more glasses of champagne, she was feeling dangerously uninhibited. Everyone looked up at her expectantly.

"Nina?"

"'Shot through the eye' - that's just what they had the media bandy around to cover up what really happened." There were a few curious glances after this comment. "He choked on that chocolate coated pretzel well before I could pull the trig…" Nina stopped speaking mid-flow as if the reservoir that supplied her throat with words had suddenly dried up. Her mouth hung open.

A thick, cloying silence enveloped the group as each of them stared at Nina, aghast. Her eyes shifted nervously over their faces before settling on the buffet table a short distance behind them. "Oh look," she said, venturing for a distraction, "they have those battered prawns on sticks. I love those. Does anyone like prawns? I like prawns. I think I'll uh…go and get some." Her hasty retreat was derailed when she was grabbed by the arm, coming face to face with a thunderstruck Ling Xiaoyu.

"Oh my God," said the Chinese girl in a breathy gasp.

This was it. Years spent hiding in the shadows, more aliases than she could count, meticulously harbouring a dark past she couldn't entirely remember and could care to forget. All for nothing. A little too much to drink, a few imprudent words spoken with an unbridled tongue, and this stupid _stupid_ girl who was almost as old as herself but wouldn't know what arthritis was if it came and smacked her in her cherubic face was going to ruin everything.

Nina could feel her pulse race as the impending and inevitable accusation that would spell the end of her existence as she knew it was about to be issued.

"You like fried prawns too!?"

She was literally speechless.

"Quick, let's hurry up and grab them before everyone else does!"

Steve and Julia stared as Nina was pulled by the arm towards the buffet, where Feng and Christie were…

Asuka's eyes had to be deceiving her. Her husband was stood…_humping_ some half naked, fat whore. And shamelessly…in front of everyone! How could he do this to her? What was he thinking? And why wasn't he worried about the now imminent castration she had promised him if he were to do something like this?

"F--e--n--g W--e--i!"

---

Nina sipped at her fifth glass of champagne and watched as the coffin bearing Heihachi Mishima in all his stately glory was carried to the front of the chamber for all to see. It had taken the twelve armed security guards about twenty minutes to restrain and then forcibly remove an enraged Asuka from the vicinity. Feng had managed to defend himself quite successfully against his wife's onslaught, suffering only a minor amount of hair pulling related follicular distress, and Christie had managed to evade the breadsticks that became makeshift projectile weapons. The paramedics wouldn't have been required at all had it not been for Ling unexpectedly choking on a piece of tofu, which she later described as 'very yummy'.

From his front row seat Kazuya was afforded an ample view of the coffin…and his father. The face he remembered, bearing its ever present scowl, was still scowling as he looked with reverent disdain upon the corpse, dressed in a traditional, white funerary kimono.

_/I think he looks very peaceful./_

_That's probably because he doesn't have a demon running rampant in his head with the worst case Tourette's ever to go undiagnosed._

_/You're mean!/_

Kazuya glanced around surreptitiously at the multitudes of people gathered and seated waiting for the service to begin, noting the absence of a certain individual. _He's not here._

/_You mean your brother? I see. He certainly has a motive. You'd think if he'd had the time and the resources to do this he'd have edited the will and made it a little more…favourable./_

The demon was right; that hypothesis didn't make sense. _Where are you, Chaolan?_

---

Something about the way he said it made the idea of a quick fumble in a cupboard sound like a romantic rendezvous at secluded lover's cove, but then, Anna never could resist Lee's charms. They may have had their arguments, tried to bankrupt each other on occasion, and accused the other of being a paedophile, but wasn't that what all couples did? It just made their moments of reconciliation that much sweeter.

"Will you put that bloody cigarette out, you're going to put holes in my tights."

"Baby, you're gonna have holes in your tights either way."

Anna rolled her eyes, not that Lee would notice - it was rather dark. "So what exactly is this? It smells funny."

"I dunno," said Lee distractedly, clawing at the buttons on his suit jacket. All the cosmetic surgery in the world couldn't help with arthritic fingers apparently. They were in fact in a small alcove adjoining the main chamber of the temple, used for storing incense.

"Is it sound proof?" asked Anna with just a hint of mischief.

Lee smirked triumphantly as the last of the buttons came undone, and took another drag. The glowing embers of his cigarette illuminated his face devilishly. "Wanna find out?"

---

The mesmerizing deep baritone of Akira Matsuoka's voice wrought respectful silence throughout the congregation as he stood before the coffin and spoke of the late Mishima's achievements. There was a certain charismatic air about Matsuoka that Kazuya was trying desperately to feel indifferent about.

/_Go on, say it. You think it was him. It makes sense, little one._/

Kazuya shook his head. _I just can't put my finger on it. I don't think it was him._

/_Stop fawning over him and think about it, Kazuya. He's the one whose benefiting the most from all this, it has to be him,_/ the demon said with frustration, showing a little of the fire that had been dissipated over the years.

Just then, a strange, muffled sound drifted across the chamber, temporarily stalling Matsuoka's speech as his eyes swept the room before he resumed. He seemed slightly distracted for a while, before returning his full attention to the task at hand.

"So what was it that drove Heihachi Mishima – at just 28 – to turn the Mishma Zaibatsu into the economic powerhouse it is today? Was it money?"

"Yess."

Matsuoka's question had of course been rhetorical. His eyes made another sweep of the room to identify the source of the phantom voice. When he was unsuccessful he was forced to go on. "Was it fame?"

"Yesss," came the reply, a little more husky this time. The mourners began to glance around awkwardly.

Trying not to feel discouraged, Matsuoka continued once again. "No, it was his det -"

"Mmmmmmm… Keep going."

"Determination," said Matsuoka, suddenly not at all convinced by his own words "to see a better world, where everyone could benefit."

"Oh yeah!" came the enthusiastic reply.

Why was that voice so familiar? Kazuya found himself glancing towards Nina a few seats away, only to find she was looking directly at him. She downed what remained of her current glass and reclined in her chair once again.

"And it was with this vision in mind that Heihachi set out to unite global markets with the promise of -"

"Harder!"

"- mutual prosperity…" Matsuoka was now visibly sweating. He wringed his hands in a nervous gesture and cleared his throat. "Whe -"

"Ho ha hah hmmm…"

"Whe -"

There was a low pitched groan.

"… When," Maatsuoka went on, looking vaguely mortified, "he first made his intentions known, it was – understandably – with a certain amount of cynicism that the -"

"Get your fingers out of there now!"

_They're in there, aren't they?_ Kazuya said, looking at a small, inconspicuous door to the left of were Matsuoka stood.

/_Well it's certainly more original than an aeroplane toilet, I'll give them that._/

Kazuya pinched the bridge of his nose.

---

Why weren't cupboards air-conditioned, that's what Anna wanted to know. And why did this one smell so strange? The aroma seemed to be getting stronger too. She was brought back to the reality of her situation by a rather load grunt.

"Say it Chaolan, I need to hear it," she pleaded almost desperately.

Anna couldn't see the grin that spread across Lee's face. "I'm going to sue you until you can only afford reasonably priced garments at reputable high street stores."

She felt fire beneath her skin. "Yes! Yesss! How much, Lee? How much have your lawyers managed to squeeze out of my account since we last met?"

"Sixty million."

"Hmmm, yes…that… Wait a minute. Is that all?"

Lee leaned within an inch of Anna's face, the cupboard still too dark for her to see him, but she could feel his nicotine laced breath against her skin. He inhaled languidly, and then in a slow, tantalising groan said, "It's not sixty million dollars, princess, it's sterling."

---

The scream could be heard by everyone in the congregation sitting outside, including the hard of hearing. "Yes! LEEEE-E-E-E-E!" And it was followed by a collective sigh of relief.

/_Shit, _I _need a cigarette after that._/

Matsuoka blotted the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as if recovering from a very strenuous workout, but looking decidedly more relaxed. He went on. "Heihachi Mishima's true legacy isn't in th- "

"Squeal, piggy!"

/_Wow they've got stamina._/

The protégé could only stand and stare dumbly at his audience as a cacophony of grunts and groans escalated into more insistent yelps and cries of ecstasy. "C-could someone call security maybe. Th-that would be prudent I think."

Someone got up slowly from the back row and trudged off to get some assistance, leaving everyone else to partake in the complimentary audio accompaniment that was yet to reach a crescendo it seemed. For several more minutes everyone awaited the arrival of the security guards while the gasps and mewls only grew in volume. After a while the scent of incense; cedar, sandalwood and cloves began to drift through the air. The scent was so powerful it was almost suffocating, and it was emanating from the small door where tendrils of smoke were pouring from the edges of the frame.

/_Err, friction?_/

Abruptly, the sounds stopped. "You fucking moron! I told you to put it out! Look, are those – my fucking clothes are on fire!" exclaimed a still muffled but suddenly more articulate voice.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

"Hurry up, it doesn't matter about yours! Those are fucking Givenchy!

A weary looking squad of security guards marched up to the front of the hall, where Matsuoka took them aside and spoke quietly while constantly jabbing a finger in the direction of the incense cupboard. The guard looked at the businessman as if he'd just grown two heads, before turning to look sceptically at the cupboard.

Tentatively, the senior guard stepped in front of the small door and gave it a light tap. Instantly it flew open and a fully clothed but literally smouldering Anna Williams stepped out, a hand on her hip and smoke billowing out from behind her.

"Anna!" Lee scrambled out the cupboard after his ex, wearing the charred remnants of what was once a suit, and quickly whipped the hat, that was still aflame, from Anna's head. He threw it to the ground and stomped on it forcefully a few times before returning it to its rightful place.

Anna adjusted her ruined hat, careful to get the angle just right. "You are so fucking paying for that," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded when she noticed not a single person was looking at anything but her. With that she sauntered out the temple, her heels click-clacking as she made her departure, Lee behind her.

"Yuuki? Yuuki!" cried a croaky and wretched voice.

There was a high pitched scream and everyone's attention was suddenly on the image of Heihachi Mishima, sat up in his coffin and looking very bewildered. It clearly took too much effort because in the next moment he was again flat on his back, leaving everyone wondering if they'd really just seen what had happened.

/_See? See? I told you!_/ exclaimed the demon excitedly.

Kazuya meandered back through his memory, to the conversation on the plane that he wished he'd never had.

_/Your father is alive./_

_Why do you keep saying that? I distinctly remember you saying he was dead, _Kazuya had replied.

_/I was being facetious, keep up with the plot./_

_How then? How can you be sure?_

_/Kazuya, you usually accept my judgement on these matters, why start questioning it now?/_

_We're talking about…_him

_/Well, let's just say that I am able to see things that you cannot, and at the moment I can't see your father, and if I can't see your father it means he's not here./_

_Here?_

_/Yes, here, on this plane./_

_I know he's not on the plane._

_/Stop being so damn obtuse, I'm not talking in physical terms./_

…

_/I mean he isn't on my plane of existence, and I would usually attribute that to an individual not being dead./_

…_You're certain of this?_

_/Well, there are the exceptions. I mean there's Elvis Presley; God only knows – and I mean God only knows – where he is. He _should_ be dead, but he's not here either. He could be walking around Las Vegas doing tribute concerts right now for all I know./_

…_And this funeral?_

_/Come now, your father's a shrewd one, a little flaky round the edge perhaps, a touch of megalomania – I think that might run in the family actually…/_

…

_/Don't pull that face, it's not a bad thing; a touch of megalomania never hurt anyone. Suffice to say he's obviously faking his death for whatever reason, you must have figured that much out./_

_But this couldn't be in his best interests; he was just about to negotiate a contract – a rather lucrative one at that - with the Matsumotos._

_/You can figure that out yourself, I only do a bit of psychic medium-ship on the side, I'm not a detective, little one./_

"Yuuki?" came the pathetic voice once again.

Yuuki Aikawa, now Heihachi's former secretary was half standing half sitting in her seat, wearing a shell-shocked expression, a petit hand covering her mouth.

"Yuuki!" this time the voice stronger, more insistent.

Feeling compelled to obey, Yuuki teetered towards the coffin, where Heihachi lay looking rather groggy. She was afraid to step too heavily, make any sudden movements, as if she would set off an incendiary device. "Mishima-sama?" she squeaked timidly.

"Yuuki, what time is it?" asked Heihachi, completely oblivious to the hundreds of spectators.

"… Mishima-sama -"

"What time is it?"

Yuuki looked at her watch. "Four thirty."

"Four thirty?"

"… PM," she squeaked.

"PM! Goddamn it, why didn't you wake me, Yuuki? I've missed two seriously important appointments!" he bawled, making to get out his bed that he had failed to notice was now a coffin. "Y-Yuuki, what's wrong?" he asked when he saw his secretary's expression was somewhere between elation and terror. "What is it?"

"It's a fucking miracle!" Nina cried, as if in answer, slopping copious amounts of champagne from her glass.

Kazuya watched as the scene played out before him, his father rising in some kind of twisted dark resurrection. Was this how it was always going to be? His father a deity of the sun, shining upon the world with bountiful rays that all things blossomed beneath and all people fell to their knees to worship, born on eternal wings, never to see a sunset, while he was doomed to watch, fading further and further into obscurity

Not this time. Death was one opponent Heihachi would not outwit, and it was coming soon to a funeral near him. Even if it meant Kazuya's incarceration for the remaining days of his life, he was prepared to pay that price to carry out this important public service. For even if Heihachi was able to successfully elude death, Kazuya was uncertain of how much longer he himself could do so. He grasped for the weapon in the inner pocket of his suit and pulled it out ready to aim and fire in the next second.

He hadn't remembered the pistol being so smooth, or having so much difficulty lacing his finger around the trigger, but it was difficult to pull his eyes away from the sight of his loathsome father rising from the dead. He would end this here and now, with this…bottle of ketchup? His gun! Where was his gun?

"FURREEEEEECE!"


End file.
